


In Ruins - Rising Tide

by soncnica



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood and Gore, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Canonical Character Death, Childhood Memories, Creepy, Dean and Kids, Disgusting Imagery, Explicit Language, Gen, Gen Work, Horse Impala, Hunter Dean, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapped Sam, Kidnapping, Loss, Magic, Mystery, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Not a death fic, Nudity, Original Character Death(s), POV Alternating, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Separate Childhoods, Sick Dean Winchester, boys raised apart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 03:19:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 50,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2566373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soncnica/pseuds/soncnica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam, the Inquisitor and Dean, the Hunter are trying to save the Land from a killer that cannot be seen or smelled or touched, a killer that attacks more viciously than anything anyone has ever faced. And it left the Land in ruins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> A/N1: Written for Sam Dean OTP MiniBang 2014 and inspired by the (taken out of context) lyrics of Fall Out Boy's 'Alone Together' from their new album. If you'll listen to the song, you'll 'hear' some familiar uh words. LOL
> 
> A/N2: My artist dollarformyname was phenomenal; she created pictures out of my words and she did it amazingly, spectacularly and I can't praise her work enough. There are no words, I love every single art piece she did for this, and I used it all in the story itself, but please, please, please go to her art post here: http://dollarformyname.livejournal.com/68064.html and tell her just how much her art is brilliant. She captured the creepiness, the atmosphere of the story and all I can do is bow before the stunning work she created. I am without words just how must the art compliments the story and I feel like the story doesn't do the art justice at all. Thank you dollarformyname for choosing my story, thank you for all the hard, hard work you put into it, thank you so so much!! *hugs you*
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I own the story, but I do NOT own SPN, Sam or Dean or anything related to that. No!

 

 

_This is a road to restoration,_

_But we're starting at the end._

 

**\- PROLOGUE PART 1 -**

 

For centuries they'd lived here, on this land of lush forests, gray mountains with peaks covered in constant snow, plains half made of hot, brown sand and the other half just rocks and bushes with thorns that made one bleed just by looking at them.

For centuries, since the oldest of them could remember seeing bright, white light of the sun shine down on the sandy ground in front of their dwelling.  
They'd lived here for centuries; living in safety, happiness ... love and generosity in spades.

For centuries …

…until darkness came to the far edges of their land and burned the life they knew into ashes. They put up a line, a border, build it with fire and wind, water and earth, wrapped it all around their land to protect the creatures living in the scattered villages around the high, snow-peaked mountains.

The darkness was filled with disease, illness, fear and pain. Gruesome, vile killer it was and it sneaked through the borders like smoke; sneaked right into the villages and hurt. Maimed. And killed. Caused suffering so great, they wept tears big enough to fill a crater the size of the Great Lakes.

After a while, they couldn't take it anymore. Couldn't take the fear that was beginning to stretch across their land like a foul fog. Couldn't take watching the creatures they'd sworn to protect twist and scream in pain when disease found them. Couldn't stand death anymore in a land where usually Death sharpened his scythe only when age became right to leave. Couldn't live in fear for their own safety.

"And so a witch, a hunter, and a scholar were born." The voice was deep and booming, causing a tremble that made small rocks fall off the mountain's slope.

A child's voice shouted: "An Inquisitor, not a scholar." and then the child scoffed.

A thick, long, sharp brown claw drew a line in a sun warmed sand.

"A road out of ruins sometimes scrapes your hands bloody, my child."

 

**\- PROLOGUE PART 2** **-**

 

It was raining.

It started with a light drizzle sometime in late afternoon; tiny, soft and cool rain drops that curled the hair at the back of his neck and made his thin cotton shirt stick to his chest and back.

Then the real rain clouds came - just like that, on the cold northern wind that blew sudden and strong through the valley. The mountains all around him were still covered with white, sparkling snow that wouldn't disappear until late autumn, and then new snow would come chilling the wind all over again. The clouds were dark, huge and hanging low to the ground, covering up everything of light; the blue sky was gone, the sun hid, the white puffy clouds of before swallowed up by the blackness. It rained hard, sheets of heavy drops that made women and children go and hide into the houses and men abandon the fields to seek shelter in barns.

He weathered out the storm with Miss Daisy in her one room cottage. It smelled of food and fire, comfortable feeling that wrapped around his chilled and wet skin as he sat down at the tiny table, eating porridge and drinking apple cider. Miss Daisy's apple cider was sweet and so good, he and his brother sometimes visited the old woman just to fill up their bellies with something other than water.

She gave him some new shirts for him and his brother; they belonged to her three boys who had died … recently. She still carried tears in her eyes, wiping her trembling, exhausted hands in her apron as she stirred the porridge. He'd given her his family's 'I'm sorry's' and her chapped lips twisted into a sad smile when she said 'thank you, sweetheart'.

No amount of sorry's in the world would ever bring her boys back, he knew that, and he wished so hard that he could've spared her the pain of loss, but he was only seven, mourning himself still. His momma … he hadn't known her, not really, he'd been only six months old when she'd died, but the way Daddy and his brother carried the weight of loss, it hurt him too.

But death was all over the Land these days, hiding in the shadows of every corner, waiting to attack. It was a way of life, but there were people who were doing their very best to stop it. Prevent it. Discover it fast enough and contain it. He admired them, admired his mom for doing her best too – or so he'd been told by his Daddy.

But even as comfortable and warm as he was sitting by the fireplace with Miss Daisy, the storm came and the storm passed and he needed to go home; the chickens needed to be chased back into their coop, the pigs fed and cows milked and then finally he'd be able to feed himself, because he knew that by the time he'd come home and do all of his chores, he'd be hungry as hell. And tired. His muscles were already feeling weak and his legs were beginning to go all wobbly and he wished his brother could come and keep him company on the way back home. Or at least make sure he wouldn't face plant somewhere along the way. His big brother was great like that; the jerk always knew when his little brother's body was going to rebel all the physical work and go down like a stack of potatoes.

But no big brother today; he had his own chores to attend to, helping Daddy with his work.

The night had fallen quickly and the silver moonlight followed fast, making sure that he saw his way down the path that led through the wheat field and onto the main street that ran straight through the village, splitting it in two.

The houses lining the wide, cobbled road were thick as thieves, touching brick wall to brick wall, doors like soldiers straight and narrow, same width apart. Windows at the same height, some small some big, but all in the same line, looking down on the street. They were all black now, people gone to sleep or the houses simply empty, uninhabited. Maybe the people had died, maybe they'd moved away, perhaps they just couldn't afford to pay for electricity so they lived in the dark or by candlelight.

Sometimes drifters or those who couldn't afford their own homes settled in, squatted in dirty, old rooms. Lived with the rats and the mice and stray cats. It was a roof over their heads, keeping them dry and not chilled to the bone, he understood that, but disease spread faster like that. It was unsafe.

He sighed and gripped the paper-wrapped shirts tighter to his chest. At least he and Daddy and his big brother had a cottage to live in, water in the well, electricity and fire wood and some animals for food if things would get too rough. He knew they wouldn't, not really, because his mommy had been a woman of status and so was Daddy.

But some people lived in empty and cold brick houses or on the outskirts of the village in cottages and cabins, minding their fields and meadows and living their lives as simple people; peasants or factory workers, people with a title and people without it.

The valley belonged to them all.

And it belonged to the sickness too.

Thick, gray fog began spreading like molasses throughout a narrow street that he turned into; a shortcut to home his brother had showed him when he turned five and was allowed to go to the village to play with other kids. That had been a great day; a hot summer day, with the sun making him sweat at ten in the morning already and his big brother gripped his hand tight, took him to the village square, kneeled down before him and told him to be good and play for as long as he wanted. And he did, played through the whole day and then his brother took him to the narrow street and told him 'here, squirt, three minutes down here, left across the lawn and you'll be home in no time.'

The fog was licking the wet, mossy walls of the houses, curling around his feet like an overexcited puppy's tail. He'd always wanted a puppy, but his Daddy said no. And no it had been but it was okay. He had other animals to attend to, other creatures to snuggle with and he'd be home soon, just a couple more minutes on this street and then a run through a tiny square and a lawn and then he'd be able to cuddle up with Sloppy. His brother had given him the black, long-furred rabbit for his birthday last year and the rabbit chose to be named Sloppy. He had laughed at it, but the rabbit was adamant and gave him a glare and a snort when he tried to convince it to choose another name for itself. But no, the rabbit shook its head, its long ears lopping all around its head and told him Sloppy. It was its name and it loved it. Minus the weird name, Sloppy was a cuddle bug, just like he and they shared the bed, the warmth and the need for comfort and safety.

A sound of fabric flapping in the wind made his heart stutter, but as he looked around himself there was nothing and no one anywhere. Just the fog and the houses, but when he looked up above his head, he could see some clothes handing from a clothes line that ran from one end of a windowsill to the next. Just clothes. Shirts and underwear, moving in the wind, making sounds like pigeons taking flight, but to him it sounded like some _thing_ else entirely.

He ran a shaky hand down his face, collecting moisture he didn't know where it'd come from – maybe from the fog or from the slight drizzle that begun falling again when he wasn't paying attention.

He didn't care all that much what it was that was sliding down his face, as his tiny, bare feet tapped on the wet cobblestone; slick and shiny in the silver moonlight. He just wanted to get home, get warm and dry, eat something and then go to sleep with Sloppy next to him. Maybe he'd be able to make his big brother read to them all before bedtime. They still had three more chapters of ' _Adventures of Fox the Faery and the dawn of the trees_ ' to read through and they were just at the most exciting part. He wanted to find out how the trees would escape from the river.

He quickened his steps, the desire to find out propelling him faster towards the end of the street.

Until he heard it. Booming laughter, loud voices, shouting and fiddles and harmonica ... the drinking house.

The men inside were all probably drunk enough already to whip him skinless or beat him dead. Ale did strange things to men in these parts of the Land, probably in all parts of the Land. His brother had explained to him that some men were down on their luck, had lost their wives and children to the illness, lost their whole homes. Had been brought into the Questioning themselves and barely survived. Ale made them forget about the pain and the loss, made them forget that the Land was dying, smothered in disease.

He understood that, because his Daddy often reached for the bottle himself, but only to take a few sips, just to warm up his insides. His Daddy would never whip him or beat him; his hand, calloused as it was, was still very gentle and soft.

But these men were jaded, hard around the edges, sculptured like that by the hard life. Death and disease and the Questioning.

It was why he needed to avoid the drinking house, needed to avoid beefy arms and exploring fingers. He wasn't a fan of the whip and he liked his skin where it was, thank you very much.

But drizzle changed into heavy rain again, just like that, like snapping his fingers or blinking his eyes. Water started pouring down from the sky in heavy, beating sheets; cold and unrelenting, thunder and lightning making him shiver at the loud noise and bright light. His clothes started to get heavy, sticking to his skin, his hair falling into his hazel eyes and made seeing anything but darkness impossible.

He fastened his steps, his wet soles slippery on the polished cobblestone and he wished so badly for the street lanterns to work, to bright up his way, to give him some light to see where he was and where he was going, but no. Everything remained in stubborn darkness and cool rain and the now muted voices from the drinking house.

He prayed a silent request to the Gods above to stop the rain and bring out the moon again, show him where to turn left and where to turn right to avoid hitting anything that shouldn't be on the street. Sometimes the drinking house left empty barrels outside to be picked up later and refilled and he certainly didn't want to trip on that.

His lungs were burning, but he couldn't stop not even for a second. He needed to go home, to Daddy and Sloppy and his brother, before his big brother would eat all his dinner. That would suck, because he knew his brother cooked potatoes for dinner and he liked those. Add some cheese on top of them and it was the best meal ever. Just the thought alone was enough to make him salivate and he licked his wet lips, pulling his tongue back into his mouth just as a strong, hard arm wrapped itself around his slim waist. Another arm joined the first and his whole body was lifted straight up from the ground, up to the sky, his heels hitting whoever was holding him in the knees.

He flailed, tried to kick and punch, but his feet kicked nothing but air and his fists had no real strength in them yet. His Daddy taught him how to fight and hit, but he was still too weak and scrawny to do any damage really. His brother told him that soon, soon he'd be strong enough to take any man down, but before that would happen, he'd need to see many more summers and eat much more potatoes.

"'m sorry kiddo, but you're ours now."

The voice was male, and his heart started to beat double time, while his breath got caught in his throat. This was it. The man would drag him into a back alley somewhere, or into one of the empty rooms, beat him to a bloody pulp or take him back to the man's place and ...

"You're gonna do just fine, kid. Gonna be just fine."

He wanted to scream, he really, really did, but all he could do was open his mouth wide and choke on the rain that started flowing directly into his throat.

"Shhh, shhh, settle Sam. You're gonna be just fine."

The fact that the person knew his name didn't faze him. Everyone knew his name, everyone in the village knew his Daddy and Dean. Everyone knew of the Winchesters. He thought his family's name would keep him safe, as everyone in the village knew what his Daddy was capable of, knew who his mom had been, but apparently not.

"You've got no idea how important you are, Sam. No idea just how much Dean'll need ya in due time."

There was no stench of alcohol in the man's breath, no drunken stuttering and staggering of feet. There was just a sure, deep rumble of a voice and a stone hard chest at his back.

The rain was still falling as if a cloud had torn apart, his mouth still open wide catching raindrops and the man was still holding him tight.

He wanted to beg for his life, wanted to scream for Dean and Daddy, wanted to cry and fight, but he couldn't do any of that.

The man wrapped him up in a long, velvet cloak; the fabric was warm and thick heating his cold and wet body up instantly.

He was seven years old when he was taken on that wet and dark street, seven when no one heard his silent screams.

And he was twenty-five when he finally understood what the man had meant when he'd said that Dean would need him in due time.


	2. PART I

  
**\- CHAPTER 1 -**

 

_14 years later_

"My goodness child, close the darn door," old, wrinkly skin and arthritis-bent fingers were at the thin wooden door as fast as the bent knees and hunched back allowed, "you're letting death in, sweetie."

It was an old tale, spoken from mother to mother to mother of how Death rides on the fog; its scythe as a paddle and its long coat as a sail. Fog wasn't unusual for summer in these parts, the mountains keeping even summers very fresh and wet, but this morning's fog was thick and white as milk. It came from the north, as it always did, meaning the day would be cold, depressingly gray and best spent inside.

The old woman banged the rickety door closed, rattling the whole wall with the force and leaned her weary bones on it. She looked at the young girl who was sweeping the floor, getting rid of bread crumbs that breakfast had left behind and sighed: "Never allow fog into the house, child. Death rides on it."

"Granny ..." the eye roll was hidden in the word and a fond smile, but she kept on sweeping, raising up dust moths, but the bread crumbs were getting into a neat pile in the middle of the room all the same. She'd just opened the door to sweep the crumbs outside, for the birds, but her granny was a sharp woman. Her body might be old and with one foot in the grave already, but her mind was as sharp as a knife.

They were both oblivious of a tall figure that stood motionless in the darkest corner of the kitchen, right between the hot stove where lunch was smelling delicious and some water was boiling and a closet that smelled of mold.

He smiled softly at the women's bickering; grandma and granddaughter, one had lost her daughter two years ago to the Plague and the other lost her mother. He'd been there, knew the fragile woman, had been there and listened to her scream and plead for her daughter. There'd been nothing he could do but take the woman to the infirmary and hold her hand until Death finally came to take her away.

It hadn't even been the woman's fault; she'd caught the disease washing clothes in the river and meeting a little boy on her way back home. She gave him some walnuts she'd kept in the pocket of her apron, their fingers brushing and that was it. The disease wasn't picky about age and gender, getting its coils into any warm body it met.

He still didn't know why some never got sick, like him, and some did. The doc's were trying to figure that out, but with no success. The disease just … had a mind of its own, they all said. Picked people as it chose, playing with them, mocking them. It was a tricky bastard, but they were trying to do their best to at least contain it.

"Granny, the water's boiling…"

"I hear it, child, I hear it. Might be old, but my hearin' 's just fine."

The smile slipped off his face and morphed into something more serious. He was here to do his work, do what he'd been raised to do, what he'd been taught to do. What was in his blood since his mother's mother's mother's mother.

He was here to Collect.

He stepped out of the shadow and into the light that was coming from a few half-burnt candles standing on top of the main table. The kitchen was stuffy, filled with smells of food and incense, little natural light coming in from the small windows. No money to pay for electricity, then.

Neither of the women noticed him, and why should they? He'd been taught to be quiet, to be a shadow on everyone's back, to be fear itself; unseen, but always there.

"Not Death, Granny, just me."

He whispered softly, trying not to twitch a muscle when both of them turned around. Their eyes widened in horror and the sounds of a broom hitting the floor and two loud gasps made him step towards the table.

"Inquisitor."

The word was a shaky gasp, as if the old woman was scared to even say the title in fear. Or maybe it was anger. Maybe it was even respect. Maybe it was all mixed together and that was all right. People reacted differently to him and his kind, he was used to everything and all.

But he didn't say anything, just nodded and stood up taller, unraveling his height trying to do this as peacefully as possible by showing them that there was no escape.

The old woman was brittle, fragile, and the young girl wasn't any better herself; bony arms and legs like sticks, a flat chest and messy red hair. The loss of her mother had hit her hard and a possible lack of food hit even harder. If she'd decide to fight him, it'd be a weak, short fight. He just hoped that she knew that, but judging by how she was shaking, lips trembling and eyes starting to water, she'd collapse first than fight.

He knew how people were like and they came in all states of mind; some fought for their lives, fought to spare themselves the pain and humiliation and very few lowered their heads and went with him, resigned to their fate.

While he understood that fear and the flight and fight instinct, in the end it didn't matter at all. If he wouldn't find them, the disease most definitely would – if it hadn't already. No matter what and how and why and where and who … running solved nothing, just spread the disease around like wildfire.

This way … they could at least try to contain it, try to help. Some people could even get better, but most of them unfortunately couldn't. At night, sometimes, he wished that people would understand that. That what he and his kind were doing was helping the Land, helping them. That there was no need to be ashamed or scared or embarrassed.

"No, no, no, noooo, nonono, please, no!"

The young girl - couldn't be more than fifteen or sixteen - started chanting, gripping the intricate designed cross hanging off a black leather string around her neck. Tears were already running down her pale, freckled cheeks, her whole body shaking and trembling, fear making her all but twist into herself.

"C'mon, come with me," he extended his hand towards her, very slowly as to not spook her even more and wiggled his fingers.

"Please, you … you already took my mom. I can't … what did I do!?"

He sighed; this was never easy no matter how many times he did it. It always tore at him, collapsed the training and the teachings he got on how to deal with this. While it was in his blood, just as it'd been in his mom's blood, watching people be like this hit him hard, straight into his heart.

"I don't know what you did…" he kept his voice low and soothing, afraid that if he'd do any sudden harsh movements she'd faint and then he'd have to wait until she'd wake up - and that would take hours off the day. Hours that he or she didn't have. "… it doesn't work that way. I just get a name, no details."

"Bb-but I didn't do anything, I swear. Pleeeease…"

She was crying now, sobbing out the words, distorting them into a barely there words, but he heard just fine. Understood just fine.

"We're just gonna make sure, all right?"

Her nod was just a barely there twitch of her head, but he saw it; he'd been trained to see even the barest of things. It filled his chest with a delicate sense of pride for the girl, that she'd go with him, go and be Questioned and then they'd see.

"What," she swallowed down on a sniff, "what're you gonna do to me?"

"Just … just gonna make sure, 'kay?"

She nodded again and started to twist her hands in her shirt by her concaved stomach; no money for electricity, no money for food, too weak to work or no one would take her as a worker.

The disease had truly sunken its teeth into every aspect of life in this Land and it made him sick to his stomach. He'd thrown up in the middle of the night so many times, just thinking about what he saw every day when he walked the streets of the villages, when he entered these people's homes, or when he had to go get the drifters and the squatters. Life was a horrid mess; filled with pain and sorrow and terror. Filled with so many lives lost, so many graves and burning piles … he'd stopped crying over it a long time ago, but sometimes tears sneaked up on him anyway.

"What's gonna happen? What … no one, we don't … talk about this."

Her words were whispered down to the floor, her cheeks flushed red with shame. He knew she was lying, because everyone talked about it, even if all they said wasn't correct.

"'s gonna be okay, I promise. 'm gonna be there every step of the way. You're my Collect, I can't leave you. Your mom," he smiled when she looked up at him, "she was my teacher's Collect, I was there with her and she was so brave, Charlie."

"My mom?"

"Yeah. Death came get her just as I was carrying her some broth. She died peacefully, you know? Talking about you all the time."

"Inquisitor, stop."

He turned to the old woman, saw her crying too and he nodded to her, silently telling her that he'd stop talking about her daughter – the pain of her loss obviously still very fresh in the old woman's mind and the last thing he wanted was to re-open any barely healed wounds.

"So please, settle down and come with me. I promise everything will be just fine. I'll be with you all the way, I won't leave you, all right?"

What he didn't say was that he'd be there to Question her. He'd be the one to all but torture her. As soon as her hand would fall into his and they'd connect, no one else would be able to sense truth or lies in her Answers. No one else but him would be able to tell if she was sick or not.

It was how it was.

"Nnnn-no, please, no! I-I-I didn't do aaaaa-anything, I ssssswear. Please."

They all begged. No matter if they were five years old or forty (if they made it that far) they all begged and pleaded. When he'd been finally old enough to go with his teacher for his first Collect, he'd wanted to stuff cotton in his ears just so that he wouldn't be able to hear them beg, cry, scream, rage. But his teacher had merely told him that he'd get used to it.

And somewhere along the way, he did.

He shook his extended hand a little bit, fingers open and inviting her palm to slip into his. Only that way he'd connect with her, only with a free given consent would the tattoo on his hand make sure to let him know if the girl was telling the truth or lying. If she had the disease that would eat her up from the inside out, or if she was healthy and could be released back into her home.

"C'mon Charlie, be strong."

In the distance, somewhere around his gaze locked with the girl's, he heard the old woman shouting something, crying and screaming words he couldn't completely understand. They were dragged through the flickering candle light, disappearing someplace words went to when no one was hearing them. His eyes were fixed on the girl, their eyes glued together and he knew she wasn't hearing her Granny either. She was barely still standing, so close to just passing out and falling into the neat pile of swept up bread crumbs and dust moths.

"Calm down and take my hand. I promise you, we'll do this really fast and if you're healthy, then you'll be with your Granny at nightfall."

"I didn't do anything ... I didn't..."

"C'mon, just take my hand and we'll make sure. It's okay, I won't let you go through it alone."

"Inquisitor," even if all and every word the old woman had said so far had fallen on deaf ears, he was wired to hear that particular word. It made his blood bubble in his veins, responding to the title, "I swear my baby didn't do anything, she didn't ... please ... you've already taken my child, please … please take me, please, take me. She's just a baby still, she ... please."

He unlocked his eyes from Charlie's with difficulty, but bony fingers wrapping into his dark blue cloak were persistent, dragging at the lapels and making the collar of his cloak dig into his nape. He hated the thing, but it was what he had to wear; a clothing of status, a clothing of who he was, a clothing showing everyone that he belonged to the Herd. He looked down at the tiny old woman gripping his cloak like it was the only thing keeping her alive.

"You know how this works Granny, you know. You're old enough to remember, to have seen. You know how it was. You know. So please …"

She nodded and hid her wet face into his shirt, crying silently into his stomach. He could feel a wet patch starting to spread down his shirt and strangely tears weren't the worst bodily fluid people had left on his shirt in times like these. He awkwardly patted the hunch on her back, but his eyes were on the girl again. She was wiping her cheeks of tears, still gripping her stomach as if she was going to throw up any second now.

"Hey, Granny, why don't you sit down on the chair, hmm?" without waiting for her to reply, he steered the trembling mess to a wooden chair that was scooted away from the table and helped her sit. She was crying more than the girl was, but that was expected.

It was always hard for the relatives of the Suspected to deal with this; they always fought hard, always cried and some even tried to shoot him – but that never worked. They always believed they could save their loved ones, they just didn't really know that it wasn't him they needed to save their family from. People still believed that what he and his kind did was unfair, terrible and simply abhorrent. But still, deep down, somewhere very deep down, they knew that what Sam did was also very, very right and important and assured them safety. And of course, there was always the possibility of the Suspected to actually be sick and guilty of carrying the disease into the Land.

Sam knew that that thought cut the most.

"I knew your Daddy Sam, you know? Knew your brother too. Knew you when you were still in diapers. You were always such a happy kid, always smiling and running around ... and you're right, I've seen. And I know. And you're right. You are. But Charlie's my baby, she's all I've got left..."

"Granny, you know she'll be safe with me. And Death, you know him too?

She shook her head.

"If she's sick, he'll take her somewhere where there's no more pain, no more suffering. And it'll maybe keep others safe."

"I know."

He straightened up from his slight bend and looked at Charlie, who was hugging her chest, snot and tears running down her lips and chin. She was as scared as an animal being brought in for slaughter and sometimes he felt as if that was exactly what he was doing.

He was bringing all of the Suspected like cattle to the slaughterhouse. But he wasn't the one who did the killing, no. Those guilty of crossing the border and those sick were already good as dead. He was just the one who brought them in, did the Questioning and let the tattoo on the back of his hand help him see rotten flesh or purity. Sickness or health.

He took a step closer to Charlie, wanting to tuck away her long, red hair, as it was falling into her mouth and that couldn't be comfortable.

"No, no, please, please don't ..."

He miscalculated, thought that he had her, thought that he'd gotten through to her, but he should've waited a minute more. He spooked her with his advance, spooked her into fleeing. He watched with sadness as her back hit the tightly closed door, but he was by her in a flash, nothing but a rush of air and an uncompleted heartbeat, pressing his left palm to the door, keeping it tightly shut.

"Charlie," he whispered at the top of her bowed head, "don't make this go down the hard way."

When she looked up at him, her eyes widened like a full moon, a fat tear sliding out of her left eye and quickly down her cheek.

"I didn't mean to run, I didn't... don't ...uhh, oh gods please! Please! Oh please, oh please, don't ... I didn't mean it ... please, don't ... I wouldn't've run. I didn't … you just … please, oh gods, please."

"'s okay, nothin' happened. You're still here, 'm still here, the door is still closed, it's all okay."

"Please ... oh gods, I didn't mean to."

He leaned closer to her face, softened his eyes and the tone of his voice even more, needing to build trust again with her, needing her to grab hold of his hand so that he could take them both away, do his job and ... and what would come next, only time would tell.

"Charlie, just take my hand."

The fingertips of his right hand were almost touching her bare forearms, as she kept them across her tiny breasts. He couldn't touch her, she needed to touch him first, needed to connect them out of her free will. If that wouldn't happen, then he could just kill her right on the spot.

She bit her bottom lip, while slowly moving her shaking hand through the air towards his palm.

"You ... you'll be there?" her voice was tentative, barely a hoarse whisper, but his answer was loud and true.

"Yes, I promise. I won't let go of you."

People felt calmer with him, his teacher had told him one day, just out of the blue. He'd said 'Sam my boy, I don't know what it is about ya, kid, but people handle the Questioning better with ya there. You got a lot of your mama's blood in ya.'

Sam didn't know about any of that, but he did notice how people - young and old, female or male - seemed almost at peace when they saw him be there as they opened their eyes. He could always see them relax onto the stone table, as if he was there to save them, protect them. As if he was there to do them no harm. He never had the heart to tell them that no, he wasn't there to spare them the Questioning. He wasn't there to save them from the Questioning, he was just there to save them from themselves, save the Land.

He was there to do the Questioning. He was there to make them scream and bleed and see.

And yet still, even after it was all over and done, and when they were proclaimed either of being sick or well, they always looked at him with thankfulness in their bloodshed eyes. Even when their bodies were weak and when pain was so great they couldn't even feel it anymore, they still looked right into his eyes with peace. Their fate discovered, be it good or bad they always tried to say 'thank you' and he always tried to say 'it's okay, everything is okay now.'

He hoped Charlie wouldn't ask that question, because he couldn't tell her that yes, he'd be there, hurting her, bleeding her, making her scream her throat bloody.

He did that, and he wasn't – he was, he was - sorry about it. He had to do that, he had to ... protect what was needed to be protected. He had to. He just had to, because he'd seen with his very eyes what it meant if someone slipped away. If someone infected made contact with someone before the Inquisitors could stop it.

Everyone knew, yet people still tried to escape.

The feel of a shaking hand sliding into his, brought him back to the little, gloomy cottage. When her delicate hand slid into his, he smiled and gripped her tight, but still mindful of her fingers. He didn't want to break them, they felt too fragile in his big hand. He wasn't sure if the girl would even survive the Questioning, even if she'd be healthy and pure. He leaned down and swiped her right cheek with his thumb, trying to get rid of the tears, but there were too many. Her face looked as if she'd been standing in pouring rain the whole morning.

"'s gonna be all right, just hold on to me. We'll get through this, Charlie."

He'd told the old woman how to treat Charlie's injuries, how to feed her and give her water. He'd told her how to deal with the nightmares that would surely plague the girl; told her that she'd mostly scream his name, but that that shouldn't frighten her and that she shouldn't seek him out. Told her to be careful if she'd have to touch her and what to do if the girl should ever feel the need to end her own life.

It would have to be enough. It would just have to be enough and if it wouldn't be, he told the old woman to go to the Inquisition Hall and ask for Doc Turner.

"I never want to do this again." he yelled at doc Turner as he walked past the man in a rush, disappearing down the long, candle lit corridor without stopping.

"It's a cross we bear, my boy." Turner whispered after he heard a door slam in the distance.

That night, when the moon wasn't out, but dark rainy clouds were, he lay in his bed, hearing Charlie's screams and pleadings as if she was in his room shouting directly into his ear.

Everything always followed him into sleep, but all he dreamed of was big, long green-brown-golden wings and huge moss colored eyes blinking gratitude at him.

All he wanted was his big brother.

 

**\- CHAPTER 2 -**

 

He was seventeen when he first saw Dean again, when he first got the chance to touch his big brother again after almost ten years of no contact. Ten years of not knowing what was happening to his brother, ten years of not hearing his voice, ten years of wishing for just a glimpse of his brother.

Ten long years of nothing but learning, reading, fighting, loneliness.

The Herd tried to help him; kept him busy with their stories, kept him almost enchanted by all the knowledge they possessed. Such old knowledge of things not even his wild imagination was able to conjure in images. They told him stories of times so bright and so alive, green trees and sparkling blue water. Stories of how the Land had been filled with so much colors, so much life that even blades of grass writhed in pleasure and happiness.

He could barely imagine it all, especially when he had to walk through barren, dried up land to get back to the Inquisition Hall. The once lush meadows were now barely managing to sprout out enough grass to feed the animals, the mills barely had enough water to produce flour and the people were dying.

They were dying, the stench of death hanging over the Land like a mist.

He was walking down a street, Cobble Street it was named, his arms spread wide, fingertips touching the bricked walls of houses either side of the street. His step was light, giddy on a glass of ale and fearing his first Collect only three months away, when a howl pierced the calm quiet of the street. It wasn't made by a dog or a wolf, wasn't made by an animal at all, he was sure of that. Wasn't made by a pixie or a Faery, they almost screeched if they shouted. Wasn't made by the trees either, the healthy ones almost always kept quiet now. Wasn't made by anything other than a human being. A person.

Then there was a wail that preceded another howl and he looked around, trying to spot where the noise was coming from.

He looked left and right, where there were only closed doors and then up where three windows away from where he was standing, a window had been opened wide and the noise must've come from in there. He was the Collector, he had access to every house, cottage and cabin in this valley, he could enter every room at his own will, no one had to invite him in. He could just freely come and go as he pleased and that was exactly what he did that day. Walked to the door below the open window, opened it up with a groan of the hinges to a dark hallway and air smelling of smoke and something acidic. It hit him like a wall, making his nose scrounge up and eyes water, but he'd smelled worse. Someday, he would smell even worse, hear worse, see worse – he knew that very well.

The hallway led him among some broken chairs and magazines put into spilled piles next to the walls to a staircase. His eyes adjusted to the darkness well and the light was grayer now, like twilight sometimes was in winter times.

He walked up brittle wooden stairs, following his nose and his ears because the howls turned into screams and the smell turned into that of human feces.

The staircase turned right and brought him into another hallway, this one short with only two doors facing each other. One was completely closed and the other half ajar.

He pushed the door open wider and wasn't all that shocked at what he saw.

He should've been, he really should've been, but he wasn't. He'd seen this before, seen what the Plague had done to people, been there when they'd lost the battle with it. Doc Turner had called him in the infirmary rooms often enough, said 'boy, you need to see, see what you're fighting against, see what would happen if you'd stop.' It'd been hell for him watching people suffer like that, writhe on the cots with blood and pus spilling out of the boils on their naked pale bodies. He'd been thirteen when doc Turner had first called for him and the sight gave him nightmares for months. But he kept on coming, soothing the dying with his presence. The Inquisitor, there, for them. It was sometimes more than they could take.

The boy, man, lying on the bed was Dean and that, that was what made him gasp and lose the thread of life for a few seconds.

Dean.

Dean.

Dean.

He'd recognize his big brother anywhere, anytime. Even like this, half naked with pus filled boils on his arms, chest and legs. He'd recognized that face, those freckles, those green eyes, anywhere.

"Dean..."

He whispered and walked deeper into the room. It smelled rancid, even with the window open, the fresh air just couldn't win the battle with the smell.

Dean was lying on the bed in his own sweat, piss and shit, writhing on the soiled sheets, making some of the boils explode and yellow-green pus run out in a slow stream.

Sam should've gagged or close his eyes at least, but the scene didn't faze him much. He'd seen all of this before, it was just how the Plague worked.

"Dean ..." he stepped closer to the edge of the bed, his hand hovering over Dean's rapidly rising chest, wanting to touch so badly. Wanting to feel his brother under his hand again.

"Please, don't ..."

He hadn't thought that Dean was conscious, but he was. Eyes in slits and chapped lips, but Dean was alive and conscious and looking right at him.

"'m not a doc, see?" he ran his hand down his long, dark blue cloak and showed him the tattoo on the back of his hand.

"See? 'm not a doc."

"C-ccc-collector..." the word was slurred and a bubble of bloody spit appeared between pale lips, the bubble bursting and saliva spilling down the big boil on Dean's chin.

"Yeah, 'm a Collector, but 'm not here to take you. 'm not here to hurt you, Dean."

There was a spark of something in the tiny slits of his brother's eyes, a memory, a recognition maybe, a need and a want fulfilled, that made Sam decide right there and then that he'd take Dean away from the soiled bed and the crappy room and take him to get better. Get him healed.

He couldn't let his brother die of this disease. He couldn't let that happen, not his brother. Not his big brother of all people.

The question of why a Collector hadn't picked up his brother yet was the last thing on his mind then and it would never be asked and never be answered. Because at that moment, with Dean twisting his face into another scream, that didn't matter. All that it mattered was his brother not dying.

He couldn't allow Dean to die, not when he knew a way to help. It was a risky way, probably wouldn't help at all, but it was a very slim chance that it would and he'd take it. Maybe Dean would be strong enough, his spirit fighting enough.

There was still so much life in Dean's eyes, that maybe, just maybe it would be enough for the healing to take effect. Dean was still clinging to life - stubborn as ever - even if the pain he'd been in was probably as horrible as sin itself.

And Sam knew pain. He saw it like a living, breathing being ever since he'd been old enough to participate in the Questioning. Old enough to be summoned to doc Turner's infirmary.

Old enough to have a one to one with Death.

There was nothing on Dean that looked even close to healthy; he was thin, pale as snow and smelled of the outhouse in the summer heat. His breathing was shallow, heartbeat close to nothing, but his eyes, those eyes - the whites of 'em yellow, but the irises ... they were as green as moss.

Full of life and it was intoxicating. It made Sam lean forward, getting almost nose to nose with Dean and breathe in deep, swallow it all down.

His brother who always smelled of beech wood smoke and leather.

His brother whose fingers always gipped his tight whenever they went anywhere.

His brother who read him stories and even made voices for the characters.

His brother who cooked him meals and got him ready for bed or for school.

His brother whose eyes were now leaking tears and whose arms were trying to tug at his cloak.

"Sss'my…"

"'m not gonna let you die, Dean."

He whispered directly into Dean's parted lips and breathed in the rotten breath Dean let out.

His brother, even if the Plague had nearly eaten him alive, still carried the smell of beech smoke on his breath.

"Not gonna let you leave me."

Dean would heal, he was sure of it, because life was oozing out of Dean's every pore, just like pus was streaming out of every boil, coloring Dean's skin and the sheet yellow.

He leaned over Dean's trembling chest, shivers and shakes of pain distorting the body and when Dean looked, really looked straight into his eyes –

\- they disappeared.

"Ruby!" he screamed when he closed the door to a small cottage that always stood at the outskirts of the village, right at the border of a dried meadow and the woods.

"Ruby!"

A young woman's back was in his line of vision, her hand stirring some soup in a pot over an open fire and when she turned around, Sam was in awe of her beauty. Even after all she'd been through, she was still stunningly beautiful, not a scar anywhere on her face or arms.

She'd been the very first he'd seen be Questioned by his teacher and she'd been his friend/advisor/teacher ever since he helped her off that stone table and brought her back to her cottage. She'd been living alone, no one to take care of her, no one to even miss her if she'd died. He took care of her, per her instructions – blabbering mess as they'd been – and she had healed up as if she'd never been brought into the Questioning.

"Inquisitor." she gasped, the wooden spoon disappearing into the big pot when she released the handle in shock.

Her brown eyes and cherry red lips, as if she'd been sucking blood all night long were open wide, surprise written all over her face.

While he did visit her from time to time, mostly to cry on her shoulder and then smash a few things in rage, she wasn't expecting him for some time yet. He could tell … this visit was a complete shock to her, but he couldn't dwell on that. He had other more important things to consider than a Witch be in shock over his appearance.

"Sam. Please, just Sam, how many times do I have to tell you."

"All right, Sam."

"I uh, I need your help."

"What's wrong?"

She obviously, purposely ignored the bundled body he held in his arms.

"He's dying. Of the Plague. But, Ruby, his soul …"

"Inquisitor, no."

Sam sighed and gripped the moaning mess of bodily fluids and sickness tighter. He wouldn't let Death take his brother. He would not.

"Witch, please."

"No, I can't. It's not my place, you can't ask that of me. I can't cheat him again. He's angry at me already."

"Ruby! I don't care what Death has up his ass. This is my brother, I … you have to help me. I'll deal with Death myself."

"And Mr. Singer?"

"I'll deal with him too."

"And _them_?"

He bowed his head and looked into Dean's half opened eyes, tears and sweat running down his brother's freckled cheeks. So pale. So close to dying.

"The Herd trusts me, they love me, they owe me. They are alive, because of what I do. Or will do soon."

"Sam, you haven't done anything for them yet. You haven't Collected anyone yet, haven't Questioned anyone yet. The Herd won't let you live after they hear of this. Death will be so pissed. At me, at you. I can't …"

"Witch, I will kill you! You're forgetting who I am," he moved closer to her, shifting the limp body in his arms higher, not wanting his brother to slip from his grip, "what I can do."

"Inquisitor, please."

"Momma?"  
A tiny, sleepy voice came from across the small room, belonging to a short figure that was rubbing eyes with small fists.

Sam's eyes narrowed and he placed Dean on the long wooden table that was decorating the center of the room. He didn't want to let go of his brother, didn't want to let go fearing that if he did so, life would just seep out of that broken and ill body. He shushed Dean's whimper and straightened back up, knowing that even at seventeen, he was tall and feared. Respected.

"Mommy?"

He looked from Dean to the small figure standing between the doorframe and then back to Ruby. She held her hand to her chest, probably trying to calm down her racing heart. He gave her a glare, daring her to do something, say something and when she didn't, he walked over to the child, crouching before her tiny frame.

"Hey, kiddo, what's your name?"

His voice was sugar sweet, tone as soft as he could manage. It was something Mr. Singer told him to do when the Collected would be children. He already had that down pat and he often used it on grown-ups too.

"Annabella."

"That's a pretty name. Mine's Sam."

"Hello, Sam."

"Hey. I uh, I bet your mom gave you that name, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Inquisitor, please …"

Ruby was scared, he knew that. What he didn't know was how he didn't know of this child? Where had Ruby been hiding her?

"You have a pretty necklace too."

He pointed to a pendant he knew very well what it meant. A pentagram was hard to miss.

"Momma gave it to me."

"Inquisitor, Sam, please, that's enough. Leave her."

He turned around, locking his gaze with Ruby's: "Will you help me?"

She nodded. She knew Inquisitors, knew Sam was, would be, the best of them all, she'd sensed that when she looked into his eyes, rather than Mr. Singer's when she'd been Questioned, knew that Sam would shine brightest of the bright and fly higher than high as an Inquisitor. He was only seventeen and his eyes were filled to the brink with compassion. She'd help him save his big brother.

She knew what was at stake and if Death, Mr. Singer and the Herd would decide to kill her, so be it. Annabella would be taken care of by the Herd. She had to trust that, but that didn't mean that she wouldn't fight all of them for her daughter. She'd protect her baby until the bitter end.

"Good, go help him."

"Inquisitor, Sam, uh, Annabella?"

He shook his head: "She'll be fine. Trust me."

She did; it was the strangest thing, hit her out of the blue, but she did. She had ever since she saw him standing next to Mr. Singer at the Questioning. Their eyes locked that day and it was the beginning of the end.

Maybe this was what she was meant for. Save the future Grand Master Inquisitor's big brother.

"We … we're having rabbit stew for dinner."

"Thank you."

Even though she'd been alive for centuries, she knew this one … this one would be her last as soon as she saw Sam unwrap the sheet from his brother's body.

"Sam …"

"I know, it's bad. I know, just … please, Ruby," he looked at her, moisture in his eyes, "he's my brother."

"Okay, yes, all right, I'll … need … things."

He placed his palm on Dean's hot forehead, cringing at the way his brother's eyes were rolling back and forth, slivers of green between the eyelids.

"Dean …"

He placed his other hand between Dean's pecs, feeling his brother's heart hit his palm under the sweat-slick skin. There were boils everywhere on his chest, some raised up and still full of pus, others near bursting open like a volcano and spilling out diseased lava.

"S-mmy…"

"Yeah, 's me. Just me."

He sat by the table, listening to Dean scream and wail, howl and shout, groan and moan, twist and turn and arch his back better than any cat, writhe and by the end of it almost squeal like an pig … he knew then, he knew that no matter what would happen at any of his Questionings, this right here would always be what would haunt him in his nightmares.

No one should've held one's brother down, listening to him make noises not even animals were capable of.

 

**\- CHAPTER 3 -**

 

He woke up with bright yellow strip of light knifing him directly into his right eye, causing him to turn away from the wall-to-ceiling window. While he loved it, loved the view on the mountains and the huge caves carved into their sides, the morning sun always found him too early and with not enough sleep in his head. He felt woozy, lightheaded and drained, wishing so badly for at least another five hours of sleep.

But sleep was a commodity, more precious to obtain than gold and rubies, especially when the Plague reaped more people, creatures and vegetation than Death himself did. The man was still bitter about that, but he couldn't stop it; he wasn't to interfere in the workings of the universe.

So yes, sleep was something that had to wait, when one had a Land to protect.

"Ugh…" he grabbed the blanket and turned around bringing it with, cocooning himself in the warm, soft fabric. Just some more time, just a few more minutes just so that his eyes would stop burning and his stomach stop churning. And then he'd go out there, to the villages and towns, looking for people who might be infected. Who either crossed the Forbidden border or came in contact with someone who did.

_hoot_

The loud sound made him open his right eye, just a squint to try and glare daggers at the owl. That never worked, the idiot just blinked his stupidly huge eyes and smirked at him. But he just couldn't deal with the sunlight yet. It was too bright, too warm even so early in the morning. Everything came too soon, he just lay down into bed, sunk into sleep and the morning was here, the sun was here, his day was here. And all he wanted was some more sleep.

"Sh't up…"

Dealing with Twirly demanded him at full thinking capacity, because the crazy bird was too smart and too manipulative for him to be anything but wide awake and sharp as a sword.

_hoot_

"S'rry owl, n't b'rd."

Twirly with his many personality flaws, was also sensitive about being called a bird. Although he wasn't an owl also. Huh, no wonder he was so touchy about things.

_hoot_

"'m up, 'm up, ugh …"

He groaned, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and turned on his back, trying to untangle himself from the blanket. Apparently it didn't want to let him go out of bed either.

He needed a moment more to lie in his warm, cozy bed until his heartbeat would come back down from the sky and his breathing would calm down enough so that he wouldn't be seeing black spots anymore.

The dream … the memory of Dean … it left him bent at the heart. He hadn't seen his brother in a long, long time. Dreamed of him every day, but through the years, the dreams stopped being so vivid. Until today, because the dream he just had felt almost alive.

It's been eight damn long years. He'd left him with Ruby that day. Left him healed, with scars and barely coherent, mumbling something about guts and glory and valley of death. Then he'd screamed about fire and rain and ravens.

Scared him shitless, scared Annabella too, seeing a half-naked man on the kitchen table where she ate her meals, screaming and muttering crazy things. But she'd been a tough kid, took it in stride, and clung to her mom's skirt. Only after the adrenaline had worn off, he'd started thinking about the danger he'd put the little girl in. He had brought a diseased man into her home, put her at risk of being infected, put her on an Inquisitor's list. He … he hadn't thought of that when he'd asked Ruby to help him. He hadn't … he'd just wanted Dean to get better. It had been a long shot, and the healing itself killed people just as efficiently as the Plague had, but Dean had been strong, full of life and Ruby'd been able to tap into that. Life was essence and essence was life.

But Annabella … he'd been insane with worry, crazy with relief at seeing Dean and then mad with the need to not have Dean die.

But Annabella hadn't gotten sick. Immune, just like he and Ruby. He'd dodged something there, but still didn't know quite what.

His heart had ached watching Dean squirm on the table in pain and his hands were covered in red hot blood and putrid pus that felt sticky between his fingers, but he hadn't been able to let go of Dean. He was immune, but even if he wasn't he'd touch Dean anyway. He wouldn't be able to keep his hands away, even if he'd get sick himself and have Death gloat when he'd take him.

And in the end, he'd had to leave, couldn't've stayed. It would mean certain death, but by him leaving, he at least had given Ruby and her child and Dean a chance.

All they'd needed was a chance.

And they got that, for at least three years, but then the news of Ruby, the Witch's death reached him. There'd been no news on Dean, only that Annabella'd been brought to the Herd to be taken care of.

But Dean … he'd just … vanished into thin air.

He yawned and rolled his head toward the window. It would be another hot day. Another day when the sun would heat up animal carcasses in the woods and on the plains, wind carrying the smell into the settlements. Another day where even the scorching sun wouldn't be able to chase away the gloom that had settled over everything. Maybe today he'd go to the Herd, ask them for a story. Ask them if he could see Annabella, or at least find out how she was doing. Ask them if they knew where his big brother was. Ask them … why life had been taken from the Land.

He knew he'd never get any answers; they kept everything so close to their hearts, only giving out barest of comfort. The Plague had taken the spark out of them too.

_hoot_

He sighed. Piss, wash his face, breakfast, brush his teeth, shower, give Twirly some food, Assignment room. Always in that order since he'd been seven years old. Minus Twirly, the idiot came later.

_hoot_

"Get out of my head…"

_hoot_

"Ugh…"

A big white cloud rolled around and covered the sun, which was a good enough reason to roll himself out of bed. Mr. Singer wouldn't wait long with Assignments and no one wanted to keep the man waiting.

"'m getting too old for this." he mumbled, while scratching his stomach on the way to the bathroom.

_hoot_

He rolled his eyes.

But it was true, no matter what Twirly said. He was getting old, even if he was only twenty-five, but all of this was getting to his muscles and his bones. And his mind. The smell of blood, sweat and piss seemed almost imbedded into his nostrils, and the screams of the people he Questioned were always ringing in his ears. Their bodies writhing in pain was seared onto his eyelids. Nightmares were to him like dreams were to normal people.

He washed his face with cold water, letting it drip from the tip of his nose into the bright, white sink. He needed to wake up fast, deal with the cobwebs in his brain and go do what he'd been trained for. What his blood was singing to him to go do.

He was the Grand Master Inquisitor; lives depended on him. The future of the people depended on him. The Land depended on him.

He dressed into a blue-white checkered shirt, blue jeans with a hole below his left knee – he'd need the seamstress to get a look at that - his ankle-length dark blue cloak; dark like the sky just before a thunderstorm. It moved around him like water, flowing, fluid, as if anticipating his every step. He strapped his sword next; he hated the thing, it wasn't heavy but it hit his calf with every step he made giving him a bruise every few months. But it was a sign of power, a sign of his status and he had to wear it to show people around him who he was, to fear him, to bow to him but still feel safe, making them know that the Herd was doing their best to have them protected. When the sun hit the sword just right, the blade side shimmered emerald green, which was another sign of his status.

"C'mon Twirly, time to go."

The owl blinked at him with its huge black eyes and hooted before spreading the wings and flying to his right shoulder. He was used to the weight, used to the claws digging into his shoulder, used to feathers touching his ear.

"Uff, you're getting heavy there, man."

_hoot_

"Gotta lay off those mice."

_hoot_

"Yeah, yeah no way, huh?"

_hoot_

"Come on Mr. Singer's waiting."

_hoot_

"He won't eat you for breakfast, don't worry."

_hoot_

"You're such a drama queen."

_hoot_

"King, jeez sorry."

_hoot_

Twirly was his best friend. More than that, he was his companion, his advisor, his link to the Herd and other creatures of the Land. He was who Dean would be if his brother was with him.

He patted the top of Twirly's soft head, small comfort, before he left his room.

The Assignment room was brightly lit. It was always brightly lit, with candles in a straight line down a long table and lights on the walls. He had measured the table once, when he was maybe twelve, and he came up with sixty feet long. He still didn't know if he made a mistake upwards or downwards, but he knew that before he actually got to the head of the table, he was already wishing he could sit down, take a breather and then continue. He'd only been twelve and scrawny, all legs and arms and even with all the training he'd been getting, he still felt weak as a newborn colt. His growing pains had been the worst thing ever and while doc Turner tried to massage his muscles as best as he could, some pangs still left him crying with pain. So needless to say, he wasn't like that anymore. The sword trainings and learning how to fight with his whole body made him strong, filled his frame, making his shoulders broad and his arms muscled.

_hoot_

"Shhhh…"

"Sam."

The voice of his teacher made him quicken his step to get to the end of the room as quickly as possible, because he could tell that Mr. Singer was impatient. The assignments had to be delivered fast to all the Inquisitors, lives depended on it. The spread of the disease depended on it, containing it depended on it.

"Mr. Singer, I've come for the list."

Mr. Singer was sitting on a chair behind the table surrounded by papers of all sizes and types, colors and shapes. If there'd be an earthquake, Mr. Singer would drown in the paper landslide.

"Someday, 'm gonna find you drowning in all this paper, old man."

_hoot_

"See, even Twirly agrees."

The smile Mr. Singer gave them was part amusement and part scowl: "Well ya know who'd replace me then, so … 'm very certain ya'll save me before I drown."

_hoot_

Yeah, Sam knew who would replace Mr. Singer.

It would be him. He would become Mr. Winchester then and … and he'd take over Mr. Singers spot. He didn't want that. Despite everything, he preferred his position. It allowed him to go out, allowed him to participate in the affairs of the Land, allowed him to interact with people (he didn't want to think about the _way_ he interacted with them, but still … ), so yeah, to have to be cooped up in this palace all of the time, wasn't something he'd like to do. At all. Ever.

_hoot_

And it wasn't something Twirly would like to do either, if the yuck in the hoot was to be believed.

"Here."

The slip of paper Mr. Singer held in his wrinkly fingers was green of color, which meant high priority. He had only once seen a paper of that color.

Ruby.

Ruby's slip of paper had been green. Not this bright, but still … green.

He was almost afraid to look at the name written on it with beautiful cursive letters, golden in color.

The green papers always, always held only one name. One soul whose life Sam would interrupt, all but torture and then … well, it would depend on the results he'd get, wouldn't it?

"Bobby …"

"Sam …"

He never ever ever called Mr. Singer by the man's real name, it was … forbidden.

But a green slip of paper? High priority? He wasn't old enough to actually deal with high priority papers, sure he was Grand Master Inquisitor, only one position under Mr. Singer, but this was … too much. Too soon.

"Go get, boy."

He blinked, swallowed down the ball of spit that suddenly formed in his throat, nodded and turned around, clinking his long sword into the table's leg. He cursed inwardly, knowing that Mr. Singer wouldn't appreciate foul language in this place.

"Sam?"

He didn't turn around, just stopped mid stride.

_hoot_

"Yeah?"

"Ya do what ya haveta do, the Herd will take care of everythin' else."

"Yes, Sire."

"Don't call me that."

He nodded again, gripped the paper until it protested with a crinkling noise and petted Twirly's head again. The soft feathers under his trembling fingers were soothing in a way not many things were.

When the heavy oak door closed behind him, he left out a breath. He knew what name was written on the paper, without even having to look at it.

_Dean Winchester, the Hunter._

Fuck. His. Life.

_hoot_

"Yeah."

A candle burned out next to his free-of-owl shoulder, the smell of smoke invading his nostrils and he looked at how the melting wax produced a mess on the candleholder.

"Shit…"

The sword felt heavy against his leg, dragging his whole body down.

Down.

Down to the smoothly polished marble floor that always made his steps echo through the empty hallways of this palace announcing his presence to all and any. There was no stealth in these corridors, no need for it really. Every Inquisitor had his or her own room, privacy being very important. To have a place to go to where they'd be alone and no one would bother them. No one would demand to know why they were immune, why they weren't affected by the Plague, what made them so damn special that they didn't get sick.

What made him so damn special and Dean wasn't?

What?

Why?

He'd asked the Herd that, but one of them just looked at him, huffed and said 'it is a mystery, my child. One we cannot yet write down.'

Sometimes … really …

_hoot_

"'m not mad, 'm just," he sighed, "never mind."

He stuffed the small paper into one of the many pockets that lay inside of his cloak and tried not to cringe every time he made a step. He couldn't handle noise right then, couldn't handle anything. He just craved solitude, wanted to go to his room and deal with this.

There'd be no time today for him to visit the Herd and spend time with their mysterious answers or no answers at all. No time to protest this, because surely Dean … his brother would never cross the border in the first place. He knew better, damn it.

But the slips of paper never lied. Never. They always told the truth, always pointed to the right person.

Maybe … maybe Dean just made contact with someone who was sick and the Inquisitors hadn't come to get that person yet. Maybe Dean …

_hoot_

"Yeah Twirly, maybe's huh?"

The owl flew from his shoulder to where it slept on top of a long, thick tree branch that spanned the whole of the wall.

The room was spacious, looking more like a whole house put into just one space. It had been his home since he'd been a child and it would probably remain his home until the day he'd die.

Death would probably mock him with something like 'well kiddo, now you're going to a much smaller place.'

Death was like that. Funny old man.

While he'd been with Mr. Singer, the sun had travelled away from the huge window and he sat down on the bed, placing his elbows on his knees and hiding his face into his hands.

This was bad. This was … horrible.

"Shit …"

He rubbed his face and reached for the paper with trembling fingers. He had to read the name to make it stick, he had to see it with his own eyes.

_Dean Winchester, the Hunter._

Gold letters on a bright green surface. Four words. Name, surname, status.

Fate sealed.

He just hoped (hope was all he had, really) that Dean would be honest in his mind and healthy.

_Healthy, Dean. I just need you to be healthy._

He wouldn't be able to stand it, if Dean had the Plague again, because this time … Ruby was dead. Death was in a ''m still mad at you Sam Winchester' mood, still pissed off since when he'd heard how Sam made Ruby steal Dean from him.

_hoot_

"D'you think he's sick, Twirly?"

_hoot_

"Yeah, shit."

He folded the paper three times; name, surname, status and placed it on the back of his right hand, covering up the black colored tattoo there.

It didn't hurt at all when the tattoo uncurled and a thin, barely half a finger long tail surfaced, wrapped itself around the small piece of paper and turned it to ashes, taking it with when it coiled back to just black ink on his hand. It took the ash into Sam's bloodstream, where it would float into every part of his body.

He had his brother in him now. Blood, ashes, and fate.

Sealed.

He flopped back to bed, closed his eyes and ignored the strain in his thighs. His muscles were already protesting everything he did today.

But he had a job to do.

Collect Dean.

_hoot_


	3. PART II

 

 

**\- CHAPTER 1 -**

 

Sam was gone. He was gone and gone and gone and Sammy was just gone. Didn't come back from Miss Daisy, didn't come home, didn't eat the potatoes with cheese for dinner. Wasn't in his bed waiting to be read his book, wasn't with Sloppy cuddling under the blankets, wasn't whining and bitching about the bright light of his bedside lamp, or the noise the rain made on the rooftop.

Sam was gone.

He was just gone.

He searched for him, of course he did, the stupid bitch was his little brother, but there was absolutely no sign, no trace, no scent of Sam anywhere.

Sloppy was … heartbroken wasn't even the word that could even start describing what the rabbit was. He was beyond sad, beyond tears, would be a broken toy if it weren't alive.

They were all broken, a piece of them all torn away with such brutal force it left them in a shocked kind of pain. It hurt, but it went beyond pain.

Sammy was gone. Baby brother was gone.

Dad was pissed, then he was driven, then he was sad and then he was just resigned that Sam was probably either dead or worse – taken by the Herd to be raised up as an Inquisitor. A Collector.

That had always been a possibility, since his mom had been a Master Inquisitor, so there was always a chance Sam would be – recruited – into the same status, but damn it, why Sammy? Sammy with his innocent soul, with his big brown eyes and a mop of hair and hands soft and tiny and clean of pain and blood and suffering.

Why not Dean? Why?

Why did the Herd take Sam?

Why?

Dean lived long, long lonely years trying to answer that question. He'd watched his dad change his personality from a father to a deflated old man, had watched him sink deeper and deeper into bottles of any alcoholic beverage he could get his hands on until there was nothing of him left but a shattered shell of who he'd once been.

_John Winchester, the Hunter._

Dean had tried to talk to his dad, tried to make the man see that what he was doing was wrong and bad and all kinds of messed up and that Sam would never had wanted this. Would be scared and angry at seeing the man who'd been his Daddy succumb to depression and alcohol.

"Dean, my son is gone."

Those were the words that hit Dean like a fist in his plexus, like a serrated knife in his gut; twisted and pierced all the way through the spine. Those were the words that cut him so deep he was positive the wound would never heal and it would keep on leaking hatred towards his dad.

Dad's son wasn't gone. He was right there, picking up the pieces every time his dad got into a fight or killed some(thing)one in his search for Sam. He was right there when his dad could barely get up from the chair to walk to his bed. He was right there to clean the vomit and blood and mop up the spill from bottles that fell out of his dad's limp fingers. He was right there watching his dad bring himself to the edge of death.

His son was gone, yes, Sam was gone, but his son was still there. Listening to his dad rant and scream and plead and beg and cry over Mary and over Sam and over how life wasn't fair and fuck the Herd, fuck the Inquisitors, fuck the Plague and the Land. He was there for his dad, when no one was there for Dean.

He was alone, so utterly alone, he could hear the movement of sand in the hourglass that were perched on top of Sammy's book shelf. But there was no more Sammy to clean the dust off them, no more Sam to leaf through the thick volumes of books. Sam, the little bitch who never wanted to get his hair cut and who insisted on new books every few days, because _Dean, 'm bored and I already read this one like seven times_ , was gone. There was no more little brother to curl up with when the winter nights got colder than a witch's tit, and the wind blew under the window right on his already half-frozen feet. There was no Sam to moan about how unfair it was to eat oatmeal every day, three times a day, when his friends ate bread and sometimes even meat.

He missed that little twerp. Missed him so much and everything had been fine, when their dad was still driven to fight everyone who might know something about what had happened to his youngest son. Everything'd been absolutely fine, when his dad had searched for Sam, believing that the kid would be found and brought back to their little family of three. He had even marched right up to the Herd – heavily drunk of course, because one doesn't simply march to the Herd completely sane and sober – and yelled obscenities at them, shouted questions at them and demands and threats.

The Herd, thankfully, took no offense, didn't act up on it, because it was John Winchester, the Hunter and he was sacred. Respected. Cherished. Needed. But still, they gave him no answers, just scoffed dark gray smoke at him and filled their eyes with something resembling tears.

It took Dean six hours and three quarters to finally drag his dad away from them. He could still see their wet, shiny eyes whenever he slept. They'd been kind, sad, amused even, but not scared or mean.

If Sam was with them, or with the Inquisitors then maybe the kid was okay.

But if Sam was dead or worse, taken to become a slave, or something even darker – caught the Plague … those thoughts always made Dean wake up in cold sweat screaming louder than the howls of the winter wolves. What if Sam had the Plague and was in agony somewhere all along, screaming for Dean, just Dean, always only Dean, needing his big brother to tell him how everything would be okay and hold his hand through the very end. What if Sam was alone and scared and in pain worse than being set on fire. What if …

Sloppy stopped those thoughts when the rabbit spread himself on top of his chest and talked about the good days, the good things, the good memories. The way Sam laughed, the way his fingers felt when sliding through his fur, how he loved to kneel down and talk to the roosters. How Sam breathed when deep in sleep, how his hair always managed to smell of apples or how he loved to read out loud the parts of the book that he loved the most and made everyone listen.

But Sam was gone now. Someone or something had taken his little brother and took from them Sam's laughter and the sound of his voice.

He hadn't had the guts to ask the Herd anything himself back then; he'd only been fourteen, not yet comfortable in his own skin, shy and grieving for both his little brother and his dad.

But all that had changed when he'd turned twenty and his dad had dropped a bottle half full of Whiskey from his limp fingers for the last time. Ever.

He burned his dad on a funeral pile on a hot summer night. He didn't cry; tears had vanished completely from his system years ago. Tears hadn't brought his brother back, tears hadn't kept his dad from slowly, painfully killing himself, tears hadn't even brought back his momma.

Tears were for the ones who still held hope.

With the death of his dad, the title, the status fell on him.

When the embers of the fire hadn't even stopped glowing red yet, when the ash of his dad hadn't even gotten scattered in the wind yet, he became _Dean Winchester, the Hunter_.

Twenty years old and his life became his dagger, long sword, his Colt and Impala, a huge, black Mustang that he himself had broken in whenever he hadn't needed to keep an eye on his dad so that the man wouldn't choke on his food and the content of the bottle.

His only friend; Impala. Only a yearling when he'd caught her all alone on the eastern pastures. Pathetic in the eyes of everyone in the Land, but truthfully, he didn't want friends, he wanted Sam back. He didn't need friends or people in general, all he wanted was Sam.

All he wanted was his little brother, wanted to see how the kid had grown, wanted to see what the years had done to the scrawny boy. Wanted to see those eyes again, hear that voice again, wanted … to punch Sam's teeth out because what the fuck was he thinking walking home alone that night. He should've either stayed with Miss Daisy or ask someone to accompany him home.

He wanted to wrap his arms around Sam's body and never let him go.

Dean Winchester, the big, bad Hunter just wanted his little brother.

He'd killed, he had so much red hot oily blood on his hands, not even doc's could top it, he'd watched light go out in people's eyes, monster's eyes. He'd broken necks, had stabbed, shot, maimed, tortured … he'd done so many things, fought so many things, that of course, of damn course it would be the Plague that would be his executor. Of course, because that was his life, wasn't it? Sickness and pain and death and fucking misfortune to be the son of Mary Winchester, the Master Inquisitor and John Winchester, the Hunter.

Of course all that he had done and caused would come rushing at him all at once in the form of the disease that had already killed a quarter of the Land and that not even the Herd had any response to. No cure. No magic solutions. Just suffering, pain and death in the end. The Inquisitors managed to stop the spread somewhat, take out the people who tested positive on the Questioning, but it wasn't enough. People were sneaky and they found ways to hide …

But it was okay. Maybe … just maybe … Sam would be waiting for him in the afterlife. Somewhere.

First there was a pinch in his left temple. He swatted at it as if it had been a simple bee sting and then slit the throat of a black dog. Done.

Then the pinch returned and spread all over the left side of his face, tearing up his eye and he was this close to be mauled by a werewolf before he was able to shoot it. Done.

Then the pinch became burning pain that spread down his entire left side, from the tips of his hair to the tip of his toenails. He crawled on all four into an empty house on Cobble Street, breaking his fingernails up wooden steps, until he flopped down on a lonely mattress that the owners must've forgotten or left behind, because it stunk of piss. He was familiar with the stains and the smell, he'd cleaned up his dad more times than he wanted to think about.

He stretched his aching, burning body on the lumpy mattress and slowly breathed out.

This was going to hurt all the way to the bitter end.

Impala had all his weapons and he'd sent her deep into the woods; the Herd would take care of her, she was safe.

All he had were the clothes on his back and even those would start to hurt soon; itch and scratch and be too hot, when the illness would spread from his left side to his right and then when the boils would come.

He left out a sob and covered his right eye with his palm.

Another sob shaking his entire left side a bit too hard and the shock of pain made him groan.

He didn't deserve this. He'd done nothing wrong. He … didn't want to die.

Another sob, which was all right. His left eye was steadily leaking anyway, so what was some more tears, right? There was no one to see him cry anyway, see his tears. No one to hear him or take care of him.

No one, because there was no Sam and there was no dad.

Another sob and he pushed his palm into his right eye, wishing that he'd been brave enough to shoot himself in the head while he still had the chance – while he still had enough strength in his trembling fingers.

But deep down, so very deep down, he knew this was punishment. He deserved this for leaving Sam to walk home alone that night, for not taking better care of his dad all those years that the man was still semi sober and healthy enough to fight, he deserved this for not strolling up to the Herd and demand answers from them just like his dad had. Because now, he was stronger, better, had his status and an official title, he was feared and respected, people bowed when he walked down the street … he had the right to at least go and ask. But he didn't.

Punishment. The Plague was punishment and he deserved it. He'd go down quietly. He wouldn't beg Death not to take him. He wouldn't resist Death's grip. He wouldn't scream.

So of course when the boils started to rise up out of his skin, all over his arms, chest, legs, back the first thing he did was scream.

Scream his little brother's name so loudly and for so long he felt something in his throat snap and the next time he coughed, he coughed pink spit.

When the boils started popping and stinky pus started running down his overheated skin, he started howling and writhing on the thin mattress.

He couldn't stop even if his throat hurt more than the rest of his body. He couldn't stop.

He just wanted all of this to stop; this wasn't even pain anymore. This was something beyond pain, something beyond suffering. Something that no one had yet described in texts. Something new, fresh, all-consuming, fire and cold in their primeval forms. Pain in its original form.

Something he'd felt only once before; when he found out that Sammy wouldn't be coming home that evening.

He managed to slip his shirt off, slide down his pants, boots and socks too, barely managed to push it all down to the floor. His boxers grated on his dick, but he was too exhausted to pull them down; what would a bit of chafed skin be when he was never going to need his dick again? The stained sheet was like tips of nails on his back, but he couldn't … if he stayed still it was all right, didn't hurt that much, but if he moved the rough fabric punctured the boils on his back, exposing bare flesh to the cool air and that – that made him howl with pain. His eyes had long ago dried up, but his body was drenched in sweat, his piss had glued his legs to the mattress the same as crap glued his ass there too. There was nothing he could do about that, he couldn't even lift his finger on his own volition. Every move his body made was completely managed by pain, lightning his nerves and synapses making his back arch, his eyes shut closed and his fingers fist the fabric underneath them.

A boil popped and he hissed; this one was easy, only felt as if someone cut of a strip of his skin. He could handle that. Had handled it a few months ago, when a pixie wanted some fresh meat. He squashed that son of a bitch like a mosquito.

He breathed out and settled down to the mattress, waiting almost like in limbo, when the pain would come back, when and where it would hit next. There was no way to prepare himself for it; it came and went and hit at places he wasn't prepared to feel it.

It was as if it was playing a game with him. The bitch.

"Dean…"

Bitch, now it was making him hear voices too. Bitch. Bitch! Where was Death when you needed him? Where? Where was the Herd to burn him into a crisp and save him from this miserable agony?

"Dean…"

The voice again. He opened his eyes to slits and no. No!

No!

Now the bitch was making him hallucinate, because if that wasn't a Collector standing right there, almost touching his boil-full chest, then his name wasn't Dean and he wasn't a Hunter. But it was and he was.

"Ppppplease, d'n't ..."

"'m not a doc, see?" he watched as the man ran his hand down a long, blue cloak, showing of the tattoo on the back of the hand.

"See? 'm not a doc."

No, the man wasn't a doc. Doc's were rougher, stunk of all kinds of potions and solutions. No, the color of the cloak spoke volumes and the long sword with the emerald green blade couldn't be mistaken for anything else.

"C-ccc-collector..." he slurred the word and grimaced at the bubble of spit that tickled his lips.

"Yeah, 'm a Collector, but 'm not here to take you. 'm not here to hurt you, Dean."

Dean … Dean … Dean … Dean …

Sam.

His baby brother. He'd grown up tall. No one cut his hair shorter. Grew up as a Collector. As an Inquisitor. Grew up strong too.

The Plague hadn't taken him. He was destroying _it_.

"Sss'my…"

His lips trembled when they formed the name he hadn't spoken in years, just thought of it every hour of every single day. It felt strange to say it, the air hissing behind his teeth, and the 'm' making him smack his bloody lips together.

Sammy.

"'m not gonna let you die, Dean."

He crossed his eyes as Sam leaned so close to him their lips were almost touching, and breathed out, allowing Sam to taste his breath, make sure that _yeah, 'm your brother._

"Not gonna let you leave me."

_Don't wanna leave ya Sammy, the Plague's just gonna take me, little brother._

 

**\- CHAPTER 2 -**

 

Ruby was a witch. It was her title, her status and she was looked upon as if she was worth less than the sewer rats and more than the sun itself.

People needed her to help with their ailments when doc's couldn't and Healers wouldn't. They feared her because of all she could do, all the power she possessed. Wanted her dead because she was friends with the Inquisitors, one in particular, but they didn't know that she'd been brought into the Questioning herself and released. She'd been healthy – immune. Dean knew that if the people of the Land would come to know that, they'd chop of her head in no time, because why would something so low as a witch be immune to such a devious disease when they weren't?

Fear and anger made people do crazy things, Dean knew all about that. His whole childhood had been made of anger and fear and pain and loneliness.

Ruby and he … they certainly made a pair. A Witch and a Hunter, both broken and longing for something. Ruby for her husband who'd died of the Plague after giving her Annabella and he for his brother.

Always Sam.

She was a strong witch with skin soft as silk and always smelling like freshly cut grass. Her big, round eyes sometimes glowed Whiskey-amber, her voice sometimes made him burn brighter than the sun, made him hide into himself whenever he didn't understand something she wanted to teach him. He felt stupid most of the time, like his brain was too small for all the knowledge she wanted to push into it.

She was the best, he'd never had before.

She was better than his dad had been, better than all the Hunters he'd come across in his life so far, she was better than he deserved.

She taught him how to hold his head up high, new tricks on wielding his sword, tricks about silver and gold and copper, secrets of plants and flowers, secrets of spells and potions that even the doc's would be jealous of. Taught him how to mix herbs, taught him about the secrets of water and soil, taught him how to take a tree's life without telling the tree it was an act of mercy. Trees were too proud for those kind of things; too proud to admit they were suffering.

She taught him compassion and how to love something even if his job was to kill it. All creatures deserved love and comfort before meeting Death.

One spring day when dusk had silently settled over the land and the youngest of the Herd left out a roar of goodnight, she placed him in a circle made of limestones and said: "Let out your animal side, Dean. I wanna see it, show it to me, c'mon," she'd poked him in his chest, "it's right in here," she'd poked him again, before shouting at him, "show it to me! C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, show it to me! You're a damn Hunter, act like it! C'mon, you asshole!"

It wasn't about sex, wasn't about that, even if he wanted it to be, but Ruby made it clear that sex was not on the table. Ever.

No, it was about fighting. Raging. Murdering. Craving. Yearning. Burning.

It was about learning to contain all that in a thing more efficient. He'd been good before, but under Ruby's lessons and teachings he became better than the best.

Under Ruby's teachings his skin stretched all over Dean Winchester, the Hunter. His mind became his title. His hands and his heart became his status. His soul vibrated with who he became.

Finally.

His animal side was roaring and scratching at his insides, pacing up and down his spine, crashing into the walls of his ribcage and he roared right back and fought to escape right along with it.

He pushed Ruby away from him until she fell on her ass, her long skirt and blouse twisting all around her thin body. She started laughing then, laughing in glee right there on the ground while looking up at him with a glint in her eye: "Yeah, there it is Hunter."

He was exploding on that forest clearing, with a circle of Fae sitting on top of the limestones, watching him, their wings fluttering bright green in the dusky glow.

They clapped their tiny hands in glee when he collapsed on the grass, spent and tired and feeling more alive than ever before. His bones were aching so good, his muscles felt well worked and trembling, his mind so clear he could see the stars even before they had fully risen. He could see the brightness of the moon even through the vail of sickness that had been covering it before. It was so beautiful, so bright, so clear.

All of his senses came alive, so damn alive he was able to smell a wild boar that had come across the clearing. Three days ago.

Annabella ran to him, all long red hair with streaks of black in them, eyes bigger and rounder than Ruby's and jumped on his stomach, making him _ooompff_ with the force the little squirt hit his abs. He grabbed the lithe body around the waist and smiled up at her as she smiled down on him.

"Hunter." she smiled a toothy smile and squealed when he jumped to his feet with her in his hands. He was strong. He felt powerful.

He nodded, unable to speak just yet, unable to put into words what the power surging through him was making him see, hear, smell. The Land was encompassing him, almost making him dizzy with just how much the Land needed him, how much the Herd needed him and the Inquisitors. He knew now. Knew how Sam felt whenever he Collected. Knew how to help the helpless. Protect the Land, just like what Sam was doing.

He grinned, not fazed by the fact that he was leaving bloody hand prints all over Annabella's white Sunday dress.

The Faes squealed right with her when he lifted her up, up to the sky and spun around. He knew the ravens and the owls sitting up on the tree branches would appreciate him showing them a child that was so pure, he could see her soul glitter amber.

Like Ruby's eyes often did.

He brought Annabella to the Herd. He hadn't seen them since he had to drag his dad away from them years ago. They were still the same; huge, colorful, strong, beautiful. Magic and magnetic and Annabella cried.

She cried like rain in the summer; big, fat drops running down her freckly cheeks, her amber soul shining dark orange all around her. She'd wailed since he'd carried Ruby's body back to the cottage and placed her on the kitchen table. Same one she'd healed him on, the scratches his fingernails had caused when he'd fought against the strong hands of his brother holding him down still present. A reminder of what had been and what had almost happened to him. Annabella had run to the still body of her mother, her face already scrunched up seconds away from crying. He'd snagged her up into his arms before she could touch her mom and get herself soaked with blood. She had fought him, small fists hitting his back, but he'd just turned her away from her mom and rocked her to sleep sitting in the middle of the small kitchen.

Anabella never said anything about hearing him cry either. The sadness ran between them like a river, strong current and pure waters.

Being eight at the time, she knew about death. She knew what happened when someone breathed out the very last breath. In the Land where vicious illness took a life every few weeks, it would be strange if she didn't. Knew Death himself as he often brought her daisies and violets so she could put in her hair. For her, death was normal, something that happened, but seeing her mother's bloody and stiff body rocked her world on its heels anyway.

They had no one that would take Annabella in, no one that would take care of her so he took her to the Herd. Put her in front of himself on Impala and they rode through the rotten forest where they both had to cover their ears to not hear the suffering of the trees, rode through the vast sandy desert where they had to pretend not to see skeletons of long dead rodents. Rode up the mountain, across the big pebbles that made Impala's legs buckle, but she was a strong filly now, and she made it to the caves where the Herd were all there, waiting for them to arrive.

The youngest of them greeted Anabella as if she was her sister and the oldest of them as if she was his daughter.

She cried into his neck, hot tears sliding down his skin, making him shiver. Her fingers were holding tight on his shirt, bunching up the fabric that would forever remain wrinkled. He didn't want to let her go either, the past three years had been something that had opened his eyes and his mind to something extraordinary, electrifying, but he needed to let her go.

Ruby's body was ashes scattered around her cottage, the Witch of the Land was dead and Annabella needed to be brought up with the knowledge of witchery if she'd ever do her title justice. And the Herd was where she needed to be; they'd be able to teach her more than Ruby'd been able to, more than Dean even could.

"Annabella, c'mon," he stroked a strand of red curly hair, the only one she had among all the black, "sweetheart, make your mommy proud, hmm?"

"Dean, no." she whispered between sobs that shook her entire body and gripped him tighter, making him hiss when her knuckles touched a big purple bruise on his back.

"Annie Bee, come on. C'mon, let go of me, c'mon."

He carefully pried her off his body, ignoring how she cried out when her fingers got twisted in the flannel of his shirt – he hoped she didn't sprain a finger – and slid her down his chest to put her feet on the sandy ground.

"Make mommy proud and stay here. Learn."

"No!"

She was almost around his neck again when long, thick and sharp teeth grabbed the back of her dark green dress and lifted her high up into the air. She screamed and flailed her arms and legs, but he knew she wouldn't fall. Or be released. Or in any way hurt.

"Behave, Annabella!"

He yelled at her and she stilled as if he'd killed her dead.

In a way, he'd killed himself. He'd miss the little rugrat. But this was the only way.

He turned around and rode back off the mountain, thinking _thank you, Sammy_ all the way back to Ruby's cottage to gather his things.

He'd ride out in the morning.

He patted Impala's flank and whispered: "We've got work to do, baby."

 

**\- CHAPTER 3 -**

 

Five fucking years and nothing had changed. It'd been five damn years since he'd left the Land to travel on its edges, explore it and try to find out what it was that tarnished it so. What made it become so weak, riddled with tiny holes and cracks. Maybe it had been the Plague, burning the thin veil with its vileness, its rotten interior and foul exterior. Maybe.

The area near the border wasn't safe; it was filled with soldiers and merchants, mercenaries and clergy … and the Plague. All of them were foul people, maliciousness in all of their eyes, the desire for blood and death hidden like dirt under their skin and yellow tar between their teeth. They itched to step across the border, settle and spread evil over _his_ Land, over something that had once been stunningly beautiful – as stories told – and full of life.

They wanted to spread evil.

Danger.

Disease.

Death.

Of course Death frowned whenever he'd asked him why he let anyone cross the border anyway. The answer had always been the same and it was annoying and frustrating and made him want to stab his sword through the man's wicked heart. Before Death could stab him with his scythe, Annabella intervened by taking Death's hand and making the old man go violet-hunting with her.

Those were memories that kept him going, kept him alive and often times made a smile appear on his lips.

But still, memories or not, the border was filled with violent people and every time one of them managed to cross the line from this side to the other side, the Inquisitors got themselves work.

More work for Sam. More torture for Sam to deliver, more blood to soak into his hands. More pain to tarnish his soul.

He tried so hard to lessen all that, to help his brother, but the border was too vast, spreading around the whole of the Land and it was just too long. He did the best he could, hunted down as much as he could, didn't pay attention what status the person had, paid no attention if it was a man or a woman. Old or young.

They could all be carriers of the Plague; carriers of his Land's downfall.

He couldn't have that.

So he hunted.

If he pressed his palm on the shimmering, swaying bubble that he _saw_ as the border, he could feel ripples on the surface, actually felt whenever something alive breached the line and sneaked into the Land. It always made his heart stutter and hatred fill his veins. Carriers.

Sometimes when he rode near the bubble he wondered if these people here even knew they were sick. No one looked ill really. People here weren't dying like in his Land. People on this side were healthy and wealthy and didn't even have titles or statuses. They were just people, going to work and back home. When he'd first come here it was unbelievable for him to perceive just how different the two lands were. People here didn't even know of magic and that was a surprise that he still, even after five years, couldn't shake. They worshiped different Gods, didn't respect the soil or the vegetation, polluted the rivers, killed animals … these people were savages.

And such differences between the lands just cemented his belief that the lands weren't meant to mix.

It had been how the Plague had come to existence. Mixing of the lands, mixing of the genes, breeding between people who shouldn't breed.

Disaster.

Chaos.

Not love. Not survival. Not passion.

When those three stopped burning and died down, all that was left was disease and illness and death.

Murder, one could call it.

The border was guarded by people like him. People who had no one and nowhere to go or be, nothing to do. People who were nothing and had nothing to lose if something should happen to them.

There were no titles here, no statuses. The Border Guards were all equal, past erased in a desire to not be judged. No questions about why one was here, no questions about what one was doing. They were just people protecting their Land, hunting down whoever or whatever would dare step across it.

He wouldn't call it friendship or trust that ran among them all. No, it wasn't that. It was solitude among the same.

And he was good at being alone. He was good at belonging to no one but himself. He was good at being good, he was better than the best.

He was Dean Winchester, the Hunter, taught by John Winchester, the Hunter and Ruby, the Witch. He was the brother of Sam Winchester, Grand Master Inquisitor, son of Mary Winchester, the Master Inquisitor.

He needed to go back home. He needed … he needed his brother. The need, the want hit him out of the blue. Like a lighting zapped through him and he leaned harder on his sword's handle to push it deeper into a merchant who'd tried to cross the border. The man's eyes bulged out of their sockets and his heart slowly stopped under his sword when the thought of Sam entered his mind.

Just that.

Sam.

It was weird watching the man's light be snuffed from his eyes while being overcome with … Sam.

It was like a punch to the gut and it made him release the handle and stagger backwards.

He'd been having dreams lately of what had happened eight years ago. They were memories and flashes of seeing his baby brother and how he'd grown … of feeling his hands on him, of feeling Sam's breath on his skin, of hearing his brother's voice whisper to him that everything would be all right, of having his baby brother carry him to Ruby and healing him … he needed to see Sam.

He needed it. The feeling wasn't rational, it wasn't sane, it was probably something he would regret and have his heart split apart, but he needed it. It was a thought that had been festering in his mind ever since his dreams became all about his brother. Sure he'd been feverish, the pain making him see everything in a blur, hazy images and misshaped figures, but the way Sam had looked that day was imprinted in his mind and that image invaded his dreams about a week ago and got stuck there.

He needed to see Sam. He needed to touch him. Speak to him without fever and blood making his words slurred and his thoughts insane.

He pulled his sword out of the man with a squelch of blood, saddled Impala, hit her flanks with his heels and galloped straight through the border, knowing that the bubbly substance would allow him to enter, as he was the Land's child. It was his birth right, and that right would heal the spot where he burst the bubble. He knew the people he'd been protecting the border with would try to hunt him down and kill him, but he didn't care.

Sam was more important. The Land was more important.

He wasn't friends with the other Border Guards. They were just people sharing the need to not be seen.

He ducked sharp arrows and fought another rider that came alongside Impala's left flank, with his sword, finally cutting the man's head off when he stopped Impala too fast, while the man galloped on.

A trick Ruby taught him.

Ruby, the Witch.

He wondered what Annie Bee was doing. She was … thirteen … now.

So that would mean that he was twenty-nine and Sam was twenty-five.

Time passed fast when one was protecting the Land. When one was hiding in the shadows, exploring and learning. When one was trying to help his little brother by killing as many sons of bitches who tried to cross the border.

He pressed his heels deeper into Impala's sides and she picked up speed, almost making him choke on the fast moving air that rushed into his mouth. He brought up a scarf from around his neck, hiding his mouth and nose with it. He needed to keep his mouth empty of flies and an occasional pixie.

Five years were enough of being away from the only person whose blood was the same red as his.

Five years were enough of missing, as the heart could only take so much.

He leaned down, all but lying on Impala's broad back, loosened the reigns and allowed the sound of his cloak fluttering in the wind and Impala's hooves hitting the ground to carry him home.

 

 

The cottage was just as he remembered; open fireplace on the wall opposite the front door, a door to the sleeping rooms on the left, a small window on the right, a wooden table with four chairs right in front of him.

Small, delicate and his home. He'd spent his childhood here, right here between these four stone and wooden walls, he'd watched Sammy play right in that corner under the window, he'd read to Sam sitting right there in a rocking chair standing in the other corner below the window. He'd eaten meals on that table, sat on those chairs, cooked over the fire in the fireplace.

He'd watched his father clean his guns and his knives sitting right at that table too, watched his dad's nose buried in his journal with only one candle lightning the words and sketches.

He'd seen his dad die in the rocking chair.

The room looked like time had just skimmed it with its finger; covered with cobwebs, dust and dead insects whose tiny, dry bodies crunched beneath his boots as he made his way to the rocking chair.

He'd wait for his little brother there, rocking back and forth and enjoying the view outside. The window was dirty; mud and dried rain drops, bird poop and guts of flies making the trees outside a blurry, gray picture, but it was all right.

He'd wait, because what was a few minutes more in a sea of so many already?


	4. PART III

 

**\- CHAPTER 1 -**

 

When someone stepped over the border, their name got written on a slip of paper. The person could be anyone; native of this Land – those were more or less the Border Guards coming back home – or someone native of all the lands surrounding this one. Those were often-times people seeking sex, booze or magic. Or were just plain evil, wanting to spread the Plague.

That had been lesson number one that Sam had learned when Mr. Singer started his schooling. It was an easy lesson to remember, and he wrote it down in his notebook with blue inked linear letters.

If that person or creature hadn't survived one whole day in the Land - hours counted by a sand hour hovering above that slip of paper - then the paper turned to ashes and ashes to a finer dust that'd get thrown into the lilly-pond outside in the garden.

That had been lesson number two. Easy to remember too, but he'd still written it down in case he'd ever forget.

Lesson number three had been trickier and had him poking his tongue out the side of his mouth when he noted it down. Mr. Singer had smiled at that, but continued on. If that person or creature survived and/or made contact with the people living here, he or she or it and the contacted person needed to be Collected. Questioned and then depending on the findings released or brought to the infirmary where they'd most likely breathe out their last breath.

Lesson number three had been (without saying) hard for Sam to learn. He'd been only ten then, ten and his soul still innocent and pure fighting back whenever Mr. Singer tried to make the lesson stick.

It'd been a struggle, one that Sam was pretty sure was still happening, even now that he was older and more experienced, but it was never easy to go and take people away from their homes to be brought in the Questioning chamber. Never easy. Some people were hysterical to the point of stabbing themselves in the heart just so that they wouldn't have to go with him. He took those to be burned in the burning holes.

But there were some he managed to calm down enough to at least make them sit down and have him explain everything.

Denial was the first response. Of course it was. Deny, deny, deny, say I didn't see that person, I didn't touch that person, I don't know that person, I was never there, I don't know that place.

Sam knew, as well as they did, that it was all pointless, 'cause the slips of paper never lied. It was impossible, because the border never made mistakes when it told them who had passed.

After denial came acceptance and their hand in his.

But with Dean … seeing his big brother again … what had Dean been doing on the other side? What made him cross into the other land and then cross the line back?

His big brother.

He was going to see his big brother again. After so many years, he was going to see him again.

_hoot_

He replaced his black tunic for a white one, because the fact that he was going to have to Question his brother made him sweat through the black one in a span of one hour.

"Shut up, I sweat, so what?"

He spoke into the open closet he was standing in front of, trying to search for the cleanest cloak he still had. He'd need to see the seamstress and the washing machines. Joy. Those machines always ate all his nickels and then laughed at him.

He sighed; but clothes needed to be washed, he couldn't walk around smelling of sweat and rust.

_hoot_

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

He didn't want to look Twirly in his big, black eyes. They were too knowing and it itched him wrong. He didn't want Twirly to know what seeing his brother made him feel. He wanted to keep that to himself. At least for a while.

He wasn't feeling nervous, wasn't scared, because the ashes of Dean's name swimming in his blood made him feel strong, made him feel even more capable than usual. The fact that his blood was the same as Dean's was just a bonus, made his head spin and adrenaline spike up when his feet touched ground.

_hoot_

__

  
The pine needles and leaves making up the ground right outside the cottage where he'd spent seven years of his life, made the impact softer and he didn't need to bend his knees as much as if he'd land on rocks. Or in a middle of a river. Or that pond near Mrs. Carsees bakery. Those poor ducks were still traumatized no matter how many times he apologized.

_hoot_

"'s Dean, you know?"

_hoot_

He took a deep breath, comforted by the weight of Twirly on his shoulder and the owl's claws penetrating his skin through two layers of clothes, and stepped forward those three long strides that separated him and his big brother. He could do this. He could protect Dean, he could make all of this easier.

This was his brother and he didn't want to harm him, but he also knew that if he'd treat Dean like he treated kids when it was their Questioning, Dean'd probably kill him with his bare hands. Possibly with his pinky.

And he wouldn't even defend himself, because there were worse ways of dying than by his brother's hand.

He gripped the door handle, a wickedly curved hazelnut branch and pushed in.

The air was stale, but not as stale as it would've been if the cottage had been locked up for years. Dean must've aired it out.

He'd come here a few years ago but the stopped. He just couldn't anymore; didn't want to open the door and not find Dean or his dad inside, waiting for him with lunch on the stove and smiles on their faces. That would be the last straw that would break him completely. He avoided this place, avoided it for the safety of his own sanity.

But everything was as he remembered; the fireplace was there, big gray stones. The table with the chairs, the window and the rocking chair.

And Dean.

"Hey Sammy."

His eyes widened and his mouth went dry, because there he was. Dean.

"Dean…" he gasped and Twirly's _hoot_ was a gasp too.

"So," he watched as Dean rocked forward and backwards once on the old rocking chair, amazed that termites hadn't yet eaten the thing and then got up, his long cloak swirling with the movement, revealing his long sword and the Colt tucked in a thigh holster, "you've grown, little brother."

Dean had grown too, filled out his shoulders, his arms muscled, the fingers holding the handle of his sword still nimble and probably able to really kill a person with just the pinky.

There was a silver ring on Dean's finger, but it wasn't of marriage. It had belonged to their mother and it was one of protection.

Dean looked weary; lines around his mouth and eyes not ones of laughter but sleepless nights and things he'd seen and wished he hadn't. Things he'd done and wished he hadn't. Sam understood, he knew how that was, he might not be Sam Winchester, the Hunter, but he was Sam Winchester, Grand Master Inquisitor and he'd seen and done things too.

Sometimes with his sword, but most of the time with his hands and his words and his mind.

He might not have blood running down his arms, but he had it spilling across his mind.

They stood, toe to toe, neither one of them knowing what the hell to do.

_hoot_

"There's an owl on your shoulder, dude."

"Uh, uh, yeah yes his name's Twirly."

"And he's your …"

"Friend."

He couldn't say the brother I never was allowed to have, but he wanted to. And by the look in Dean's eyes, his big brother knew.

"You always did love animals, Sammy. Remember Sloppy?"

"T'yeah, I did, still do. What … what happened to him? Did he, uh …"

He couldn't even say it. His eyes were already starting to water and he just couldn't say it.

"No, I let him go after you," he rubbed the back of his neck, "... he was sad, he was really sad, started to lose his fur, shed all over the place, I just ... couldn't ... so I took him to the Faeries, told 'em to look after him. Dunno what happened to him then."

Sam bit his lip and nodded. Sloppy was ... more than just his friend, he was someone who listened to his every whispered word and never judged him when he'd been scared or when he cried.

_hoot_

He looked at Twirly, the huge, huge shiny eyes staring deep into his soul and lightly stroked his head: '''s okay Twirly, 'm okay.'

_hoot_

"You gonna gimme your hand, or should I take it?"

The question snapped Sam out of thinking about Sloppy, about the black rabbit that oozed comfort twenty-four seven.

"What?"

"Should I just take your hand or are you gonna give it to me?"

He was stumped; he just never really met anyone who didn't go hysterical over him appearing and it was … refreshing. But then of course, his brother wouldn't do that.

The Hunter's never did. They were too strong of a mind and too proud to cry and rage and try to run away. They just shot themselves or stabbed themselves with their daggers. They swore to protect the Land and to be accused of getting in contact with anyone carrying the Plague – that was worse than death itself.

He reached out his hand and was surprised that it wasn't shaking. He thought that it should've shaken. Because there was his big brother, there was Dean, who took care of him in this small cottage; played with him, read to him, fed him, talked to him, rocked him to sleep in that rocking chair.

Dean.

"Take it." he whispered and watched Dean's hand travel towards him. It was like time had stopped for a second and then started to run slow as molasses.

"Sam, before I do that …"

And there it was. Dean was going to run, was going to kill him, was not going to go down without a fight.

He watched his brother pinch his lips together and whisper, "… you'll be there, right?" and Sam never thought that Dean was … could be … scared.

"Yeah Dean," I'll be there to take you apart and sew you back together. I'll be there to go into your mind and seek the truth. I'll be there to watch you be held down and speared for the truth. I'll be there watching you cry and hear you scream and I'll be there to clean the blood, sweat and piss off of you. I'll be there waiting to see if you're pure or rotten, "I'll be there."

"Okay, okay."

_hoot_

His hand touching Sam's was like getting electrocuted. He was sure he smelt something burning and it was probably his heart and brain. The world swirled before his eyes, currents of whiteness folding him into Sam's body and he released a long breath.

Nothing had ever felt as good as feeling his little brother stand next to him. Finally. After all these years, he finally had Sam back. He didn't care what Sam would do to him, he knew that the Questioning was necessary, as he did cross the border and been in contact with a lot of the other land's natives, but he just didn't care. All he cared about was that Sam would be there and not leave him.

He didn't want to be left alone again. Didn't want to lose Sam again.

He woke up lying on a bed. Soft, enormous bed, the mattress dipping down and raising up in just the right places to support his aching body. It wasn't a sudden wakening, it wasn't quick fall on your ass kinda wake up and it certainly wasn't a wakening where he'd gasp and find himself drenched in sweat – like it had been for the last five years.

It was just him opening his eyes as slowly as he possibly could and seeing a ceiling above him … a ceiling made of polished gray-black-white marble with a stunning painting drawn on it. Or carved into it, maybe even made from different colored marble, like a mosaic but he couldn't really tell. He'd seen paintings like that before, especially in houses of prayer, and he'd seen images called 'graffiti' on the sides of drinking houses he often visited on the other side of the border but this painting, this picture … if waking up didn't make him gasp the picture certainly did.

The colors and the way the artist made the lines and the patterns – it made the picture alive, made it as if it was moving and breathing and reaching down right for him.

He blinked and looked away, looked to the side towards a floor to ceiling window and squinted his eyes against the hot sun. He couldn't stand to watch a man holding a long, sharp-tipped spear in one hand and a long sword, drenched in blood in the other, look straight at him. It was the center piece of the painting – the Hunter. The spear and the sword gave it away – he didn't use a spear anymore, had his Colt, but some of the older Hunters did, so he knew.

The other pieces, the minor ones were of dragons standing behind the Hunter, bowing their big heads and folding up their massive golden wings showing him the respect he deserved. Beside him stood another man, dressed in a long, dark blue cloak with clouds in the most violent of storms depicted on the fabric. He held a clean, green sparkling long swords in one hand while the other rested on a dragon's snout.

He couldn't look at the picture; it looked too alive, held energy that he could see in how the colors were vibrant, dynamic, intense. They looked as if they were dancing, swirling. The clouds on the man's cloak were shifting as if a wind was blowing right at them. Everything seemed as if it was constantly mixing and matching to present the very best of it all. Seemed as if the picture wanted to impress him.

The sun was safer to look at than the picture. Safer than thinking about what the picture meant.

Because a Hunter and an Inquisitor with the Herd bowing to them?

The artist must've been drunk out of his mind or under very, very illegal substances to have made that picture.

He was one hundred percent sure that the Herd bowed to no man, no woman and no child. To no one human and to no creature.

They respected everybody, of course, but to bow before a man? Dean was sure they'd rather be torn apart by beasts from down South than bow their heads and tuck their wings to their bodies.

"You awake?"

_hoot_

The words and the _hoot_ came from his right, from his dead line of sight and he clenched the silky fabric he was lying on into his fist.

It was Sam's voice and it was so different than it had been. Not only had Sam grown up and filled out, his voice had become one of a man, not stayed one of a child and Dean … whished so badly that he could've been there and listen to it change over the years. Laugh at the squeaks and high pitched words when Sam'd hit that age.

He blinked and turned his head towards his brother. The owl was sitting on his left shoulder now, its hawk-like beak looking as if it could tear him apart if he made one sudden move. The flat face covered with black, white, brown feathers looked serious and the big eyes with a rusty orange around the pupil were observing him. Measuring him up and he could respect that. Sam needed to be protected, needed a friend like that who'd do anything to prevent Sam from getting hurt. The owl was one of a kind, that was for sure; it's brown-black feathers were in vertical strips running down its front and the ear tufts on his round head were, well, funny. He'd laugh if he wouldn't think that the owl would attack him for it.

It lifted its right leg and the claws on the thing … he flinched and could've sworn the owl smirked at him.

"Seriously Twirly? He's my brother."

_hoot_

"Don't give me that, just … go prepare everything, please?"

_hoot_

Sam rolled his eyes at that and huffed. The owl took flight, its wing span probably more than forty inches if Dean's eye was to be trusted. It was some sight that was for sure.

The owl flew out the open door, but his eyes were on his brother again.

So damn tall, taller than him. When … what had he been fed to have grown so tall? How'd he been training for all those muscles to be there on his arms? What had he been doing that his shoulders were that wide and …

"I see you're still refusing to cut your hair."

Sam's lips quirked up in a smile: "Not anytime soon, jerk."

"Still a bitch I see."

A shimmer in Sam's eyes told him that he should stop this, that they should stop this, before things would escalate and end with tears and hugs and maybe even a fight with their daggers. Or fists. He was sure Sam knew all the moves either way.

"Dean…"

Fuck Sam and … fuck time as it didn't take away how his little brother could strip him bare, with just one well delivered wording of his name.

He turned his head away, not wanting to make this harder on Sam, making his brother look him in the eye when he'd answer the next question.

"Just tell me when." He whispered up to the painting, his imagination taking the best of him, because he could've sworn he saw a dragon look him straight in his eyes and the gold in them sparkle silver.

"An hour."

One blink and the dragon's eyes were gold and looking as if they were directed to the ground and not at him.

"'kay."

One hour wasn't enough for him to mentally prepare himself for the Questioning, but maybe he didn't need to. He knew what was going to happen, he knew that he had absolutely nothing to hide and all his thoughts and his answers would be the truth and … yes, he was okay. It was okay. And for the other things; he couldn't control those. He'd been very careful when he'd lain down with women, he'd been very careful not to drink or eat anything he himself didn't prepare. But still … now that he had his little brother back, he was all right with dying. Wouldn't be the first time he was on Death's doorstep. And he kinda missed the old man and his fried pickle obsession.

"Dean…"

The only thing that he didn't quite like was that Sam would be doing the Questioning, that Sam would be the one there and looking at him and into him and see and hear and feel his every thought. That … that he wasn't prepared for.

He looked back at Sam, who stood there by the side of the bed, his status cloak looking both heavy and light on his shoulders and the crest of the Order of Inquisitors glittering silver and gold on his left breast, right over the heart.

"'s okay, Sammy."

"I'll make it quick. I know … I know you're not sick."

"Don't be so quick there."

"No, I know. But … I won't … if … I won't judge you."

"I know you won't."

"I've been doing this for years Dean, I …"

"Sam, I know, 's okay. You're my brother, it's okay."

He watched Sam bite his lower lip and nod: "It'll be quick, I promise."

He looked from Sam back to the painting above him, a painting that was stretching throughout the entire ceiling of the huge chamber and this time … this time it wasn't his imagination playing with him, because this time, he did see the Inquisitor place his hand on the Hunter's shoulder and squeeze while one of the dragons wrapped its long, spiked tail around the Hunter's legs. Possessive. Cherished.

"Sam?"

There was no answer and he looked at where he'd seen Sam last, but there was no Sam there.

"Sam?!"

There was panic rising in him now, from his belly up his chest, puncturing his heart, up his throat piercing his eyes and up into his head. Sam had left him. Again.

No, no, no!

No. Sam would be back. They had an … appointment … Sam would be back. Probably just went to prepare himself or whatever the Inquisitors did before a Questioning. Especially Inquisitors of Sam's status.

What he didn't know was that Sam went to order the pixies to be extra good at scrubbing blood off of the stone table in his own Questioning chamber.

He lay back down on the bed with a sigh, stuffing down the panic and calming down his heartbeat.

His eyes widened when he saw the Inquisitor's long sword, dripping with red blood now, all the green gone, come right at him, the blade pushing out of the picture and going right for his throat. He had quick reflexes, his legs like springs, but the sword was faster, the swing in full momentum and when the blade swung across the flesh of his throat he didn't see anything else but silver light flashing before his eyes.

 

**\- CHAPTER 2** -

 

He remembered this place. Why was he here? He shouldn't be here. He couldn't be here.

How was he here?

He turned around – stalls with white doors, words and pictures scribbled on them with drunken fingers - and around – urinals with rust and corrosion at their edges - and around, until his eyes landed on a big mirror that spanned the whole wall right above three big sinks with silver pipes dripping brown water.

If this was where he ended up after dying, then he had some choice words to say to Death, if the coward would ever show, because this was just stupid. A men's room in a bar? Seriously?

But then again, knowing the man he was surprised Death wasn't already here, smelling of deep fried pickles and grinning at him.

Huh.

There was the door, he could just walk out of here, pretend that meeting Sam had just been a drunken dream, just one of the plenty nightmares that had seared his brain the last couple of days. He could – just open the door, walk out, get himself another beer at the bar, pick up a chick and try to forget about everything while he'd fuck her.

But he didn't do that, 'cause Sam had to be real, right? Twirly, the owl? It all had to be real, because there was no way his imagination scrounged all that up; he'd seen some weird stuff in his life, but Sam with an owl on his shoulder? That was just too weird even for him.

He sighed and walked on the wet, slippery green-tiled floor towards the counter that held the sinks, all lined up just like the houses in his village. He braced his hands on either side of the middle sink, grimacing when his fingers tapped on a puddle of what he hoped was soapy water but one couldn't ever tell in these bars.

Leaning closer to the mirror until he could see the bags under his eyes and freckles on his nose he muttered: "This is just stupid."

The hot breath fogged up the mirror, distorting the image of his face into something grotesque, something hidden behind the white fog. When the bony finger of Death didn't reach out from the stain, then he knew that this wasn't his afterlife. Wasn't even the real men's room in that bar, because there was no laughter, no glasses and bottles clinking to be heard behind the room's walls.

This was something else. This was something he wasn't ready for, something he didn't know how to fight. He'd been under the powder that made him hallucinate all kind of things, been poisoned once so badly he thought that he was floating on gray clouds. But this was a room, with solid walls and solid sinks beneath his hands. This was something much more real than a gray cloud.

The mirror was broken in the corners, had some rust running in a squiggly line from the top left corner to the bottom right corner, dividing the reflection of his face right in the middle of his forehead – and it offered him no answers to just where the hell he even was.

He bowed his head between his shoulder blades, eyes landing on grime and soap streaks inside the sink. It was as dirty as he remembered. Smelled as he remembered too.

"Where are we, Dean?"

The voice was Sam's and it didn't make him flinch or reach for one of this weapons. Didn't make him scared or raise his head up and turn around.

It was just Sam, just his little brother and it was all right, even if Sam would pierce his heart with a dagger or cut off his head with that long sword of his.

"It's a," he chuckled down at the sink, grimacing at the smell coming out of the hair stuffed drain, "men's room."

"Yeah, I can see that."

He chuckled louder, because Sam even at seven and younger had been such a smart mouth and he guessed that not even studying to be the Grand Master Inquisitor had changed that. Or at least mellowed it.

"It's a men's room in a drinkin' house behind the western border. 's called a bar, ya know? The drinks're the same, just the names're different."

He listened as Sam's heavy, brown-leather boots made splashing noises, stepping in spilled water and probably piss – drunken men have horrible aim - as he walked closer.

There was a silent want in him, a need to have Sam closer; to have his brother stand behind his back, to have him there so that he wouldn't need to think about what the fuck was going on. This was obviously Sam's domain and his brother would know just what to do. He kept his head bowed, putting himself – his fate and his future - into Sam's hands.

This wasn't a Hunter's game field, it was the Inquisitor's.

"Why here, Dean?"

Sam with his one and a million questions. Always so damn curious, always so damn inquisitive and it was no wonder that Sam had been chosen to follow their mother's path and not Dean. The Herd chose wisely, because Dean was sure he wouldn't be able to stand learning so much, following so many rules, be so patient with people. He was a man of war, of fighting and wielding a sword. He was a man who liked to get dirty, guts up to his elbows dirty. Talking to people, being social with them wasn't something he liked doing, didn't have the patience nor the right words. There were days when he hadn't spoken a word, just survived on grunts and movements of his head. But Sam – Sam'd always been one to chat with people, read, learn, patiently wait everything out, and then try to peacefully steer things in the right direction. Sam waited, while Dean acted. Sam talked when Dean grunted, Sam learned when Dean just went by the ear. They were black and white, but together they were all kinds of shades of gray and better. A team.

And he understood that – the youngest of the Herd had once whispered to him 'Dean, do not despair. Sam had been brought up differently than you, but together, you're both the same.' Then the oldest of them shooed him away and he went, but the words rang in his head for quite some time.

"I don't know why."

It was the truth, he had absolutely no idea why here, he had absolutely no idea what was even happening.

"Dean, it has to mean something otherwise this wouldn't be your preparing memory."

He raised his head up then, but didn't turn around, because his eyes found Sam's in the mirror just fine. His brother was standing right there, behind him, almost close enough for his back to hit Sam's chest and he wanted that. Wanted to feel if Sam was alive and there, for real there or if Sam was just an illusion as all of this clearly just had to be. Illusion; one wrong move from him and it would all fall into dust, dissolve into smoke.

"My what?"

"It's a … zone … where people go to prepare themselves for the Questioning. I follow them there, get a glimpse of what to expect, calm them down, talk to them. Every person has a different thing that makes them comfortable. Kids have a room with their favorite toy in it and we play with it a bit, adults usually end up in the bedrooms of their homes, or the living rooms, some go back to when they were kids or teens. It's really different for everyone."

"What was the craziest place you ended up?"

Sam's smile told of a memory, but his words were a short: "Can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"I can't disrupt this place. As soon as I'd tell you, you'd think about it and we'd end up there and that wouldn't make you calm, 'cause it wouldn't be your place."

"Yeah, 'kay."

"Maybe I'll tell you after all of this."

"Maybe."

"So, why here?"

"I really have no idea."

Oh, now he knew why here, he knew perfectly well why here, but it wasn't something he was ready to share with his brother. Maybe someday, maybe at some point he'd be able to look Sam in the eye and tell him that this dirty, smelly shit room of some no name bar near the western border – a bar where he picked up hookers 'cause they had more protection than ordinary girls, where he drank liquor to rival his dad's drunken days, where he started and finished a lot of brawls - was where he'd killed a man because he'd caught him with a book in his hand.

He'd stood just like this, with his back to the door and his front to the mirror, when he pulled a wrinkled, torn up, dirty ' _Adventures of Fox the Faery and the dawn of the trees_ ' from his pocket and decided that it really was time to go back home.

There were words exchanged, of course, because the guy was drunk with greasy hair falling into his eyes and Dean just snapped. No one would ever mock him, tease him, badmouth his brother who was the goddamned Grand Master Inquisitor and Dean just …

… pushed the tip of his dagger into the guy's heart, unblinking and uncaring, pushed it deeper, hot blood spilling down his fingers and hand. When the beating heart lost the battle against the silver blade, he smiled. No one would talk like that about his little brother, no one. And it was at that point, that very second when the man fell to the puddled, tiled floor that Dean knew the lengths he'd go to, to keep his brother safe and alive and respected. That was the first and the last time he'd killed someone not because it was his job to do so, but because he _wanted_ to. No one would call his little brother names and wish upon him the Plague. No one. And no one would ever take away that book from him; he still hadn't known how the trees escaped from the river and when he'd have Sam back, they'd find out.

"You wanna keep it hidden? The reason for this place?"

Maybe if they were alone somewhere, not here, Sam would maybe try to push more, try to get Dean to spill, but they weren't there and this was Sam doing what he was born to do. Sam was doing his job and he wasn't supposed to push.

Dean liked that. A lot.

"Yeah, yeah I … just … yeah."

"Fine, 's fine, I can do that."

Maybe someday he'd tell Sam. Maybe someday when he'd get used to those eyes looking at him, and not feel as if they were looking straight into the deepest pools of his soul, he'd tell him. Maybe there would be no judgment from Sam, no pity. No anger. Maybe.

The men's room was illuminated grass-green; dying fluorescent lights attached to the high, moldy ceiling were white, but the walls and the tiles were all variations of green and the light reflected that, dousing the room in an oppressive sort of air. One of the bulbs was on its way to going out; flickering and buzzing in and out of light, while one bulb had a moth repeatedly smacking at it, getting burned and still going at it. The flickering was making Dean's eyes water and the sound of the moth sizzling its tiny body on the hot bulb was just making him feel sick. It was the same noise as the boils all over his body had made as they popped and spilled out pus. Like sizzling, but not. Like the sound water made just as it was about to boil, but not.

Like dying, but not.

"So, you ready, Dean?"

He wished Sam wouldn't treat him like all those other people, because he wasn't all those other people. He was his big brother, they had the same blood flowing through the veins, but then again, maybe Sam had been taught to do so and was so ingrained in him he couldn't stop. Just like the ashes of papers that had carried the names of the people he'd brought in for the Questioning.

"No, 'm really not."

It was easy to admit that, when he didn't have to look Sam directly in his eyes, when all he had to do was lean a bit down and let the streak of rust cross Sam's eyes in the reflection. Hiding. He was hiding, but couldn't tell if he was hiding from Sam, or if he was hiding Sam from him. He was terrified, because what if he was sick? What if he had the Plague? He didn't want to go through that again. He'd been tough going into this thing, but now – now that it was actually happening, he wished he could go back and swallow a bullet.

"'kay, Dean."

But what if he was healthy? He'd been careful, so very careful but the disease was deception and trickery. Sneaking in when one least expected.

"Fuck."

He let his neck go limp, making his head fall back down between his shoulders. Fuck. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the dirt of the sink anymore. The smell was enough, but he couldn't do anything about that.

"'s gonna be okay."

"Don't … don't lie to me, Sam." He whispered and heard Sam sigh a sigh of a man on a mission to help, to fix things but not quite knowing if his help would be welcomed, appreciated or even wanted.

It was a sigh Dean was used to. In his line of work, he sighed that same sigh so many times; hell maybe he was even the one Sam had learned it from when they'd been younger.

The smell coming from the sink's drain was making him want to vomit right into it; it all stank just as foul and vile as the pus that had been leaking out of the boils when the Plague almost took him years ago.

"Can I touch you?"

The words were accompanied with a heavy hand on his nape, even before he could answer the question. The answer would be yes in any and all ways, because Dean was craving touch. Starving for it so much that when Sam's big palm took rest on his sweaty nape, it made him shudder. Skin on skin, brother on brother, and it was as if every fiber of his being just lit up like fireworks and the sparks started rushing towards that small point of impact. Needing, wanting, desiring to feel his brother there after so, so, so many years.

So many years being denied this; to being close like this, hearing each other speak, feeling each other's warm skin, hearing each other breathe. So many years of just memories of how it had been, just muscle memory of Sam curling up next to him whenever storm raged outside. Memories of hos his hands gripped Sam's tight when they went to the village.

But it was all real now.

The last time Dean had touched his brother was a few hours – six hours, three minutes and eighteen seconds – before Sam had disappeared out of his life. He had touched Sam's bony shoulder to steer him into the right direction from their cottage to Mrs. Daisy's cottage where Sam would take the cows to the remaining pastures.

That had been the last time he touched his brother. He never counted the time Sam had touched him when he carried him to Ruby, the Witch to be healed and he wasn't counting the time he gripped Sam's hand to be taken … here.

Those were two very different situations; in one he was in enough pain to not really be aware that it really was Sam and in the other too happy to see Sam to actually appreciate anything more than just _Sam, Sam's here_.

But this, here, now … Sam's hand resting on the back of his neck, Sam's fingers pressing into the side of his neck, his long cloak smelling of roses and smoke of burned-out candles - chasing away the stench of pus - almost bracketing him as his brother leaned forward. This was as different as different got.

Sam's warm breath ruffled the spiky hair at the top of his head: "Dean? You havin' flashbacks?" and it was as if the tiny pressure of the breaths pushed his head down in a nod.

"Okay. Okay."

He wasn't surprised that Sam knew what was going on in his mind, knew that he was thinking about the Plague settling inside of him when he'd been younger. Even if they'd been apart for years, Sam probably knew a lot of things about him, about what he'd been doing. There was a reason Sam was an Inquisitor of the highest status. He had knowledge of things, things beyond what simple people could even start to try and comprehend. Sam was a Scholar, a man of all kinds of knowledge.

The sound of pipes squealing in protest against being turned and the sound of water rushing onto the ceramic surface made him blink, but he couldn't say a damn word. Words had no existence in a place that wasn't his to control, wasn't his to fight in so he could only watch as Sam wet one of the brown paper towels with cool water and placed it on his forehead.

The push at his nape made his head fall forward and oh, it felt good. The towel was soaked with cold water, but it was heating up fast with the warmth of his and Sam's skin.

"'s all right."

He leaned harder onto the towel, trying to soak up as much of the coolness as he could, but Sam took it away and wet another one.

"Lean on it."

His brother squeezed his nape and pushed the wet towel up over the spikes of his hair and then it was gone again to be replaced very soon with another one. And another one. Maybe this place had skewed reality, because he never felt Sam's hand leave his body. But now there was a dripping towel on his forehead and another one at his nape and Sam was pushing him down, down until he had to grip the edge of the counter tighter to stop himself from falling into the rusty, wet, stained sink.

His breathing picked up speed; he wasn't used to this. He hadn't had his brother or anyone really around in times of need. Whenever he needed someone, he was alone. He had always been alone. The Herd took his little brother away from him and turned him into the most known, most respected, most feared and loved man in the Land and now that Sam was here, Dean had no idea what to do. How to act. How to take comfort.

He was a Hunter. He wielded a sword, a gun, a knife, a dagger, a bow. He knew how and where to hit to kill or just to maim or to hurt enough to get answers. He knew how to be ruthless, but he'd never been taught what to do with kindness. Ruby had taught him how to be kind, but what should he do when someone else was kind to him? When his brother was kind to him?

Or was all of this just Sam being the Inquisitor? Was all of this what he'd been taught to do? To be? Like Dean had been taught to be the sword and the gun, Sam had been taught to be a comforting, soothing, fearless presence?

Or was Sam like this because it was his own brother he was dealing with?

"Sam…"

"Calm down."

The towels were thrown to the already messy floor and replaced with two more; nape and forehead again and Dean felt trapped. Sam was a solid, warm presence at his bowed back, Sam's hands strong holding his head and Dean wished he had some kind of a weapon on his persona. But not in this place, because this place was his preparing memory.

And that just sounded wrong. And stupid.

"Calm down, brother."

Dean's whole body vibrated and shuddered at that word.

Brother.

He had his brother back. After so long, after so many things have happened between then and now - Dad dying, the Plague having him in its clutches, staying with Ruby to learn, him crossing the border and coming back home - he had his brother back now.

And he wouldn't let him go again.

The water was cold running down the sides of his neck, down his nose and cheeks and he stuck out his tongue to lick it off his lips. It tasted of nothing, tasted of water and air.

"How're you doing?"

"'m fine, 's helping."

"Water always does, Dean."

He tried to nod, but Sam's hold was unyielding so he breathed out: "Yeah…"

He watched as Sam threw the towels onto the floor where they laid in a heap of wet paper like sand castles. He wondered who'd clean that up. He wondered why he even cared, because he sure as hell hadn't cared that he left that man in a heap of limp, bloody limbs right at the center of this room.

"Dean…" Sam pushed his head up with the hand on his forehead, making them look each other in the eyes in the mirror in front of them.

Dean was in his hunting clothes; boots, dark blue jeans that almost matched Sam's cloak in color, gray T-shirt under a black button down. No need for a jacket here, no need for weapons here, no need for a horse.

Just them.

The green light of the room reflected on their skin, making them look as if they were sick and about to puke their guts out. Strange place, this bar toilet room, Sam thought. With its broken and flickering lights, dirty floors with puddles of who knew what and the smell. The smell had to be the worst of it all.

What kinda life had Dean led up until now?

"Dean…"

His brother's eyes were still the same green as they'd been when they'd been kids, his skin still freckled, his legs still bowed slightly and his hair still dirty blond and still in spikes. But his body had filled up, became muscled, became strong, competent, became a Hunter's body. A Warrior's body.

But all that didn't erase the fact that Dean came from across the border. All that didn't erase the possibility that Dean carried either disease or knowledge of things important to their Land.

"C'mon Dean, 's time."

"Sam…"

He was scared, no denying that. Fear, sometimes, could be the thing that could save his life. More than any weapon ever could, and he gave into the fear whenever the Hunt became more than he knew he could handle. Fear and smarts, were what made Hunters who they were. A status lower than the Inquisitors and a status higher than Witches.

"Dean, it's time, you're all right. You're doin' fine, c'mon."

He might be scared, but he wasn't a coward. He'd go with Sam, go with his little brother and go through the Questioning and then he'd make a life for himself here in this Land and be closer to his brother.

That was all he wanted, all he ever wanted.

He nodded and pushed himself away from the sink, took a deep breath and turned around. He cleared his throat when he saw how easily Sam moved away from the straight path leading to the door.

"Go on, Dean, 'm right behind you."

He took a big step over the wet towels – over the man he'd killed - and another step before he felt Sam start to follow him. There would be no escaping this.

Not with Sam behind his back like that and the door right in front of his nose.

"Dean, go on, push the handle down and open the door."

His hand shook when he raised it up to wrap his trembling fingers around the handle. A light above where they stood flickered and sizzled a moth into its death.

He couldn't do it. Couldn't do it. What if he was sick? What if he had carried the Plague back into his Land? What if …

"I know, believe me I know, but if you are sick, I … I won't … I'll try to save you. Again, I will. I swear. There has to be a cure, Dean, you survived once before, you did and I don't know how, Ruby didn't know how, we just … we gave you herbs and Ruby was saying somethin' 'bout blood and life and I don't know, but you were one of the survivors. One of so few, Dean."

"You're immune Sam! By some goddamned amazing miracle the Plague avoids you like ...," he chuckled, "like you're the Plague," he huffed, "... and I survived when so many, so many die, man."

"I know, don't ask me why the Plague doesn't wanna touch me, but Dean, you're not sick again, so just believe in that, all right?"

"I'd die to keep you safe, Sammy. Keep you doin' what you do for as long as ... "

" ... you don't have to, Dean, 'cause I'm safe. I am. Safer than you out there."

"I know."

"'s gonna be okay. Really … it is."

He trusted his brother more than he could ever trust himself. No matter the years separating them, no matter the time they hadn't spend together, he trusted Sam ... his heart had never steered him wrong before.

He looked down at his hand on the door handle when he felt fingers twist and wove their way between his.

"I gotcha, all right. I won't leave you."

They pressed down on the handle together and as the door slowly opened, the tattoo on the back of Sam's hand started to glow green and bronze and red.

When the door opened, too bright and too white light enveloped them both and Dean's legs buckled when Sam nudged the back of his left knee with his knee.

He took a step forward and screamed.

 

**\- CHAPTER 3 -**

 

" _Are you scared of dying, Dean?"_

" _No ... I ... I'm terrified of it."_

He remembered those words every time he squeezed in comfort the hand of anyone dying on one of the cots in Doc Turner's infirmary. He remembered how Dean's eyes shone in the dim sunlight when his big brother admitted that he was scared of dying. They'd just been kids then, too young to have to even think about it. But the disease left them no choice; seeing the Land be void of light and colors left them no choice but to think about it every single day. Their childhood - as much of it as they had together - had never been carefree, always just work and lessons and fear of catching the Plague and dying.

Of course when they both finally got to the right age to take their statuses and had finally met Death himself, dying didn't seem so scary anymore. Started to seem more like an adventure to Dean; uncharted waters in treacherous seas from where no person ever returned and like a brand new mystery to solve to Sam. Death was as silent as a grave when asked about it all, of course, but his mere presence soothed any thoughts of fear.

But to tell – explain really – all that to other people was a different matter. People were scared, petrified of the way the Plague would strip them of their independence, take them away from their loved ones and throw them in agony so great even the horrified dying would be mercy. Sam understood that fear, had had many conversations about it with the Herd and Death himself, but he could never quite transfer all of that knowledge to the rest of the people. Perhaps because they weren't supposed to know of it, perhaps the mysteries of the how and why and when were only unveiled to him because he was one of the few who could actually comprehend it all. Not to say that the people of the Land were simple and lacking in smarts, but they were crippled by fear and fear, as Sam had found out a long time ago, could do funny things to one's mind. He had to draw his sword many a times to stop a fight between two neighbors, each accusing the other of being ill. Had to stop a lot of fist fights and gun fights when one or the other party thought they'd caught someone diseased. His sword, even though he wasn't the Hunter, carried a lot of blood, had cut a lot of flesh and clinked with a lot of other swords. He could only imagine how bloody his brother's sword must be, how many bullets his Colt had fired.

He shook those thoughts away, because his brother was the Land's Hunter, he had been born to kill. Maybe one day he'd ask just how many creatures had gone mad of the disease and Dean had to put out of their misery. Just how many ... perhaps as many as Sam had? More? Less?

But he was sure of one thing, this day would not be the day when he'd find out that Dean was ill and going to die. Dean was fine but watching his big brother's prone body, in a place where there'd been so many bodies, in a place where people of the Land found out if they'd die or not brought back the memories of that cloudy day when Dean had told him that he was terrified of dying.

Sam wouldn't let Dean die. Hadn't before, wouldn't now and as the candles flickered all around him, throwing long, black shadows all over the rocky walls and Dean's still pale body, he gritted his teeth and curled the fingers of his right hand into a fist.

Dean would be fine, because Dean was the Hunter, Dean was the Land's final line of protection from all the critters gone wild, from all the creatures gone rabid, from all the animals who weren't able to control their feral side anymore.

The Plague couldn't take him. Sam wouldn't let it; he'd rip Dean from its dirty, greedy, vicious hands just as he had years before.

"Twirly, get his right side, I'll get his left."

The binds were leather; from the Land's finest cows. He'd made the leather all by himself, made these straps and installed them on the stone himself. They were made not to damage the soft skin of one's wrists, they made no real damage no matter how much the person tugged at them.

He looked down at Dean's face; sweat was already forming on his forehead, his left eyelid was twitching, but his entire face was still bathed in serenity.

He strapped down his brother's left arm and ran his hand lightly up Dean's forearm, squeezed his bicep and braced his hands either side of Dean's head.

"You're gonna be just fine, man, you hear me?"

The words came out as a whisper, he never even intended them to pass his lips but they did and they were there and there was no taking them back. He'd just have to do everything in his power to make sure he wouldn't fail them.

To say he wasn't afraid would be stupid; he was scared, because this was his brother and he never ever thought that he'd ever have Dean in here, in this chamber, lying on this cold stone. He never wanted to even begin to think that Dean would ever be here like this; he sighed.

"Inquisitor?"

He shook his head, couldn't start anything, not before Dean'd wake up and Twirly knew that so why the Feary called for him, he had no idea. He just wanted to have a few more seconds, before Dean'd open his eyes, to himself. To get his fill of his brother's peaceful look. Dean looked like the child Sam remembered. Freckles on the nose and cheeks, pale skin that the sun barely gazed upon, strength and protectiveness in every line on his skin. Cockiness and mischief and walls erected between his soul and the outside world so that no vile words or actions could penetrate.

"Inquisitor?"

"Yeah?"

"But, but, but, but he's the Hunter!"

The voice was tiny and shrill, pulling on his heavy eyelids like pliers. It tried to be a whisper but wherever he was, wherever the voice was it was amplifying the words, making them ten times as loud as they were meant to be; stabbing at his ears and brain and all he wanted was the voice to shut up.

"I know, Twirly."

His brother's soft words made him shudder and breathe out; Sam was still there, hadn't left, nothing had happened. As long as that stayed like that, it was fine. Everything would be fine.

"But, but, but, but he's your brother!"

The voice that was now almost spluttering the words was coming from somewhere on his right and his brother's voice from somewhere above him.

He wanted them both to shut up and let him sleep for just a little longer; there were no plans for today, nowhere to go, just sleep and maybe some food and then sleep some more. And maybe talk with Sam a bit, find out about what all his brother'd been up to since … that day. Share some war stories, share some ale, share some stories about gals that had taken their hearts and stepped on them later. Share tales of scars and tales of drunken nights. Get to know each other again, perhaps share some stories of their parents after they'd get stupidly drunk, of course.

"I know, Twirly."

Sam sounded sad, weary and he couldn't have that because this was supposed to be a good day, ale and wine and going down memory lane – lanes, because well, he and Sam didn't have just one lane, did they? They'd lived years separated from each other, years' worth of things happening to them that they hadn't shared, that they hadn't experienced together.

They were brothers by blood and flesh but not life. They've been taken, separated by who they were, what they were, what they were meant to be … they were …

… well then, they would just have to start from the beginning then.

"But, but, but, but Sam …"

"Twirly!"

His brother's shout was what made his scratchy eyes finally flutter open and he groaned when he could see that the light he expected to sear his eyes was nice and dim and no longer the bright whiteness that had nearly burned out his eyeballs when that door had opened.

"S'm?" he croaked, tensing when he felt that he couldn't move to scratch an itch on his nose, couldn't move to slap at his brother's face that was hovering right above him.

"Sam?"

"Dean, hey just don't panic. Don't move, don't try to resist, 'kay? You're tied to the stone but everything's okay."

"Sam?"

"You're really going to Question your own brother, Sam?"

"Twirly, either shut up or change back and fly away!"

He slowly turned his head to see to whom that annoying voice belonged - like freakin' wind chimes stuck in a gale - when he spotted a Faery flying four inches above the soft inside of his right forearm. A forearm that was strapped down to stone with a wide, brown leather band across his wrist, pinning him down.

"Twirly, 'm sorry, just … please."

Sam's voice brought his eyes back to his brother, who offered him a tiny, almost awkward smile and fiddled with something out of his sight.

"'m sorry Grand Master Inquisitor, I was out of line. It's hard for me when … all these emotions, you understand? They overwhelm in this form."

"I know Twirly, I understand, it's all right. No harm done, buddy."

"Sam?"

He was confused. Utterly and completely confused. And he wasn't getting any attention what with all the bickering going on between his brother and a Faery of all things and what was happening? Where was he? What the freaking freak was going on? They were in a men's room a second ago and … and … and now here … where was here?

What … was … happening?

"No, Dean, c'mon no, don't panic. This'll be over soon, all right?"

The words were a rush out of his brother's mouth, doing absolutely nothing to calm him down. Just the opposite; they made his heart start to beat double time and his chest squeeze out all the air in his lungs. He was ready to attack, ready to break loose of the restrains and go for the throat.

Whose, he didn't know, but he wanted his Colt and he wanted his sword and he wanted them to draw blood. He could already smell it in the air; copper and fear and his fingers twitched trying to grab hold of a handle, trying to squeeze a trigger. But he couldn't do anything, his fingers grabbing at thin air. He was trapped like a fly on a spider's web.

This was going to hurt.

"Sam, fuck … wha'?"

His eyes caught movement right in front of him and he strained his neck to see … the small Faery slowly flying across his heaving and bare chest, giving him a look of pity and oh, that was just wrong. It took only one blink of his tired eyes and the Faery was already by his left arm that was in the same position as his right; tied.

His legs, when he tried to move them, weren't budging at all. Tied down too, then.

Well awesome then.

He watched as the Faery gritted his tiny, sharp white teeth and plopped down on the stone close to his fingers, crossing his tiny arms across his glittering chest.

"Sammy?"

The Hunter in him wanted his trusty weapons, wanted to stand up and fight with all the power, all the strength he had. He'd even 'borrow' the Inquisitor's sword and start defending himself with it. The Hunter in him was an animal and he bared his teeth in a growl, never loosing eye contact with his brother. Being restrained like this … the animal didn't like it.

"Dean, I know, all right? I know how it is, but you have to control yourself. You know this has to happen. You know that."

"Dean, brother, Hunter …," he looked to his left, snarled at Twirly who was looking at him with eyes glowing brightly as the sun whenever it shone through the clouds, "lay it to rest. Just for now. It is just … just Sam."

The words almost made him howl at how stupid they were, just how dumb did that Faery think Dean was, but a hand on his forehead shut his mouth up with a snap.

"Dean?"

He looked away from the Fae, up to where his baby brother was leaning over him, hair in the kid's eyes and his storm-blue cloak falling forward, hiding them both from everything.

It was just him and his brother, as it was supposed to have been for all these years. All he'd ever wanted was his baby brother to come back to him, to be with him. All he'd ever wanted was to be the first to make Sam drunk, the first to teach Sam how to ride a horse in a gallop, the first to take Sam to the Herd, the first to teach Sam how to handle the Colt, the first to teach Sam about life and women and … the Plague. He'd longed for this for so long, just to have his baby brother close to him again, by his side, have people say 'those brothers Winchesters, one a Hunter and the other one the Inquisitor' and bow down before them in respect. He wanted all of that so badly.

"Dean, hey…"

Sam had been all alone for so many years, he'd been taught to be the Inquisitor, had Collected and Questioned so many people, seen so much, too much for a soul like Sam's to handle – he'd always been a sensitive kid – and yet, here, right now, his baby brother was looking at him as if nothing of that had touched him. Nothing had jaded him as much as it had jaded Dean.

But Sam was lying; Dean could see it in a crinkle by Sam's right eye. They'd been apart for years, yes sure, but they were still connected on some level they couldn't even begin to understand and Dean saw. That crinkle right there, told just how much everything, _everything_ was sitting so heavy upon his little brother's shoulders, pushing him down, nailing him to the ground. Sure, Sam had been born to do all this, but being born to do something and wanting to do it were two very different things and once this was over, he and Sam were gonna have a little talk.

"Sammy…"

But the Questioning wouldn't stop him from letting his brother know that he knew just fine what all was going on inside of Sam's head. He knew and he understood and if there was one job, one role that Dean would not fail as a brother, it was to make sure to ease Sam's mind about all of this, to make sure that Sam knew it was okay. That everything would be okay.

Sam's nod and a twitch of his lip was enough to make him close his eyes, breathe out and stuff the Hunter deep, deep down, getting the animal that Ruby had so efficiently brought out of him to sleep.

He was just Dean now. Just a brother. Nothing else. Dean to Sam, nothing more.

"Nothin' to be scared of, all right, Dean."

The words sounded rehearsed and abused; as if they were spoken in this room so many times, even the walls didn't echo them back anymore. They made him shudder, especially when the look in Sam's eyes looked more creepy than sincere, which Dean supposed it was meant to be.

Maybe he should wake up the Hunter in him again, because now, now that he was just Dean he was scared. Scared just as he'd been when they both had been kids, lying on that forest clearing and Sam had asked him if he was afraid of dying. He'd said no, scoffed and wanted to make so, so, so much fun of his little brother for asking him such a dumb question, but when he looked into Sam's eyes – he couldn't lie. He couldn't tell a fib to those big, brown eyes and that goofy looking face, couldn't stop himself from saying that he was terrified. He was terrified of dying, because that would mean he'd lose Sam, he'd never see Sam again, he'd go to a new, different, scary place, a dark unknown place and Sam wouldn't be there. Sam wouldn't be there ever again asking him to hold his hand or read him bedtime stories or ask stupid questions and demand to know answers even if there were no answers. He was petrified of going away without Sam.

And then Sam had been taken and it'd been as if Dean had died.

And now, here … he was scared of all of this; the Faery with its blazing yellow and baby blue sparkly fluttery wings and two antennas sprouting from the top of its head, moving left and right as if completely oblivious of one another.

Scared of the dark corners, the light on him that was seemingly coming from damn nowhere, scared of his arms and legs tied up with a strength that could pulverize bones if he'd move too much. He was scared of his body being unmovable, his weapons unreachable, his brother's eyes shining in streaks of silver and green, the cold slab of stone underneath his back and oh butt, oh he was naked, oh Gods…

"Sam, am I naked?" he whispered, dreading the answer but knowing it anyway and when Sam nodded: "Yeah, but it's okay, 's just you, me and Twirly and you have nothing all of us haven't seen before, right?" he closed his eyes and banged his head against the stone, dislodging his brother's hand from his forehead.

"Yeeeeeah," he drawled out as if Sam was slow on the uptake, "but why am I naked?"

"You do know how the Questioning works, right?"

Now his brother was just making fun of him.

"Yeah, you ask me questions and I answer and … Sam?"

"Dean, no, I don't _ask_ questions, who told you that?"

"Uh … people?"

"I don't ask questions, it does."

"Who," he scrounged up his nose, "Twirly?"

The Faery gasped in shock: "Sacrilege! Sam tell it, I don't know where that came from, tell it people are fools, Sam!"

"Twirly, calm yourself. It knows how the minds of people work, it knows."

"Sam…"

He didn't know what to say to move this conversation along, but he damn well needed some explanation here. He was naked, exposed to the room, exposed to his little brother and his crazy Fae of an owl and he needed to end this before his heart would flutter out of his chest and his dick crawled all the way into his body to hide from all of this craziness. Twirly's eyes were glowing bright blue now and the dusting of orange freckles on his chubby cheeks were shimmering like the roads in summer and Sam … Sam's eyes wore vertical stripes of silver and green, silver and green and it scared the shit out of him. What had been done to his baby brother? No human eyes could be like that.

"Sammy …"

Sam looked down at Dean who was staring up with eyes open so wide they were like gates to a whole other dimension. Big drops of sweat were rolling down his temples, some joining the tiny drops on his upper lip, others disappearing into Dean's hair.

It was nicely warm in the chamber; the rocks of the cave's walls made sure that the temperature was always steady – not too hot, not too cold – and that the moisture was always the same too – not bearing down on one's lungs, but just heavy enough to be present – so it was probably fear that was making Dean sweat.

Fear of the pain? Fear of what if he had the Plague? Fear of Sam?

No, Dean would never be scared of him.

He quickly glanced along his brother's spread out body, his eyes capturing white lines of raised skin, cuts that hadn't been sewn right, scars; round ones, as if from a bullet, but bigger, scarred tissue big as a bottom of a wine glass. They were everywhere on his brother; his thighs, his stomach, his chest, his pecs, his arms, there was even one of them on the delicate skin of his penis and his left testicle. He had to look away then; it was invading his brother's privacy and seeing what Dean would probably never allow him to see and all of it was making him start to seethe from anger.

Boils.

They were scars from the boils. Dean … he'd carried all that … for so long … he got healthy, got rid of the Plague, but the bitch sure left a damn farewell gift. He had failed his brother, hadn't he? He hadn't found Dean fast enough, no one had known, no one … if they'd just known … but if they had known, then Dean would've been brought to doc Turner and not to Ruby and … then Dean might've died.

There were so many questions to all of this, so many what if's and how's that it was making Sam's head spin. He'd thought about all of this a lot of times, had asked around, had asked the Herd and Death, but they all had vague answers or no answers at all. He had so many theories, but nothing to do with it all.

Seeing all the scars … seeing what Dean had to see every damn day, live with those reminders of quite possibly the worst pain he'd ever been in … it was starting to tear Sam apart. He had seen those boils pop himself, had wiped the pus and the blood off of Dean's flushed and hot skin himself, had even cut away the dead skin from where the boils had ruptured and left a hole the size of a crater on Dean's skin, but … this … he just … couldn't …

"Sammy?"

He looked back down at Dean, looked at how his brother was carrying all that proof that he'd been sick; the remorse he felt of not finding Dean sooner was almost overwhelming: "'m sorry, 'm so sorry, Dean, 'm so, so, so damn sorry, Dean."

He should've known that Dean would try to deflect, reroute the concern and the apology into something else, but the smirk on Dean's face that told him he was in trouble, still caught him by surprise: "Took a peek, huh?"

"The scars," he took a breath and hung his head between his shoulders, the tips of his hair almost touching Dean's forehead, "Dean …"

"Sam, hey look at me."

He raised his head up and settled his weight on his hands that were either side of Dean's head again. Dean's eyes were rolled almost to the back of his brother's head, straining to be able to see him so he leaned further over Dean, making his brother's head settle in a more natural angle.

"Ehh, 's okay. Chicks dig scars, like you wouldn't believe. Had this one girl," a grin, "who licked them all, the shit she could do with her tongue, ufff man…"

Because his brother was in so many ways still the same kid he'd known, he allowed Dean to take all the fight out of him but he still had to breathe: "Stop, Dean, please … 's not … not a joke," because he was also the same kid Dean had known.

"No, Sam, 's not. But I have 'em, I made peace with that and I rather have 'em than be dead."

It was the truth, he could hear it in Dean's voice.

"Yeah, yeah okay."

"So you gonna tell me what's gonna happen, 'cause this … this wasn't in the brochure, man."

The words were spoken with a chuckle and Sam knew it had nothing to do with the sentence being funny or not.

They had to move this along; the candles being held on iron sconces on the walls were starting to flicker, dying out on them; the smoke was already in the air and it filled his nostrils, telling him to hurry, swallow down his fear and get this done. The flames were dancing in their death throes, speaking to him of how this wasn't his first time doing this, that he knew how to do this, how to do this best of the best, how to do this and allow everyone to keep their dignity, how everyone who had gotten up from the stone in the past had always looked at him with gratitude and not hate. The white flames were whispering to him to just be Sam, the Grand Master Inquisitor who treated everyone as if they were saints and not sinners.

But this was _still_ his brother, this was the Hunter, this was Dean. This was Dean, it wasn't just some random guy, some person he had to go and Collect and do this to. No, this was his brother and the blood in him was singing, making him want to protect Dean from all of this. He wanted to set Dean free and get out of here. Out of this place that reeked of screams and pain and blood; so much blood. So much suffering, but for the right cause. For a good cause.

Saving the Land came first. Getting rid of all the ill people came first.

Trying to give light a sliver of a chance to strike the Plague dead, came first.

He knew Dean understood that now, he knew Dean wouldn't want it any other way and his brother already 'told' him that it was all right.

And Dean would get through this, survive this because he was healthy and then … they'd go do what they'd been raised to do, but do it together. Side by side.

He planted his feet, fixed his sword and cloak so that they wouldn't be in the way, squared his shoulders, took a deep breath and asked: "See this?"

He waited for Dean to rotate his head to the right and then showed his brother the tattoo on the back of his hand. A tattoo that the Oldest of them had carved and burned into his skin. Only took half a second, but it left him sick for days afterwards. Doc Turner looked after him, Mr. Singer sat by his bedside but all he wanted was his big brother to tell him that everything would be all right. He'd called for Dean, doc Turner told him that years later when the man had been drunk on ale, told him how he cried and begged for his brother to come and take him away from the burning pain. But Dean hadn't come. Not then and not years later. Not until he had found him, sick with the Plague.

Doc Turner had told him that if the screaming would have gone on for one more day, they really would've gone and fetched his brother.

That piece of information made Sam lose his mind and nothing and no one had been safe from his anger. The Inquisitor Hall still carried the damage he'd done in his rage.

But then Mr. Singer had send him to the Herd and they taught him how to control his anger, how to make good with it not bad. But it wasn't until the youngest of them whispered to him one morning before breakfast that Dean and he were more intertwined that anyone could ever even imagine that he reined in his anger.

"Nice tat, have one myself."

Dean's words brought him back and just seeing his big brother right there, right in front of him, laying on the cold stone chased away those memories. Dean was here now and that was all that mattered.

"Yeah, I saw."

He'd noticed the black ink on Dean's left side, near the heart. A pentagram. Protection. In tune with the witchcraft of the Land.

He slowly reached towards it, tracing the black lines with his finger, noticing how goosebumps rose on his brother's chest with the touch and he withdrew his hand as if burned.

"Ruby?"

He already knew the answer, but he wanted Dean to stop looking at him like that.

"Yeah, Ruby."

His tattoo wasn't of that. His was of a coiled tail wrapped around a small body. Only two big eyes the color of silver were visible, peeking from behind the tail, looking straight ahead from Sam's skin observing the Land wherever Sam went.

"She's dead."

"I … I know, Dean."

"Had a daughter."

"I know … "

"Yours?"

"What? No! No."

"My bad."

Dean's face was a mixture of sadness and surprise and Sam didn't know how to handle that. He'd brought Dean to Ruby so that she could help him, try her remedies that _actually_ worked on Dean, and then he left his brother with her and she … taught him so much, Sam knew. But for Dean to think that he was Annabella's father, was just … crazy and when time would be right, he would ask what ever gave Dean that idea. Hadn't Ruby ever talked about Annabella's father?

One flame died, sending one corner of the chamber into complete darkness.

"Inquisitor, Sam, it's time."

He had forgotten that Twirly was still in the room, which really was a testimony on just how much all of this was affecting him, because Twirly was always in the chamber when he was doing this. The kids, especially, loved the Faery, of course when children were on the stone, Twirly kept to his owl form, the presence of a cute, feathery animal always brought smiles on their tear-streaked faces.

But Dean wasn't a child, didn't need to pet the owl before things would start to go from fluffy feathers and big round eyes to screaming and bleeding and then either death in suffering or life with scars that would run deeper than just the skin.

Dean was tough. Dean didn't need cuddling. He needed a brother who was competent in what would be done, a brother whose hands didn't shake, a brother who was confident through every step of the way. A brother who would get him through this with the same care and efficiency as he did everyone else.

And Sam was the best.

"Ready?"

"Born ready."

He smiled, Dean really hadn't changed much and finding all of these things that were the same and things that were different would take a lot of time, but it would be a time spent in fun, Sam was sure.

"'kay, 'm gonna put my hand," he raised his right hand and showed it to Dean, "right here," he placed it lightly just below where Dean's elbow would've bent if his arm hadn't been tied down straight, "and see the tail of the tattoo?"

At Dean's nod he wrapped his fingers around his brother's forearm and squeezed them, making Dean wince slightly. The candles that were placed on the wall behind his back were flickering, illuminating his brother's arm in warm brownish light.

"The tail's gonna unwrap just as it's doing right now, see … and turn into really black smoke, just like that and then it's gonna go up your arm and down your ribs, just like that, down your right thigh, and between your toes, then up your calf, up the inside of your thigh …"

The black, smoky tail was doing exactly what his brother was saying with a voice so soft it was barely a whisper.

It was mesmerizing; it was magic in the making. He had only ever seen Ruby do magic, cast spells and levitate objects and stuff, but this was magic coming out of his baby brother's hand, out of the tattoo and it was both creepy and unreal.

He wanted to ask Sam how it felt, if he could feel anything at all. He wanted to look up at Sam, but the smoke coiling around his bicep and then traveling down his ribcage was drawing his attention. He could feel Sam's palm rest in the very sensitive skin at the bend of his elbow, could feel Sam's long fingers squeezing all his blood supply back up his arm, leaving his fingers to start tingling. He could feel his brother's touch and that was okay, meant Sam wasn't leaving him. He could hear his brother breathing somewhere close to his left ear and that was okay too, meant Sam was right there with him.

He'd never admit to Sam just how much he was sinking into the safety of feeling him there. He'd probably never hear the end of it.

So he focused his attention back on the tar black smoke that was swirling like a living thing down his right flank, dipping into the hollows of his ribs, over his hipbone, down the outer side of his right thigh, calf, down to his heel and up the sole of his foot.

He moved his foot, trying to tap at it, but it felt like air; a soft, cool breeze that didn't even tickle and he was very ticklish.

It felt almost like a caress.

He followed it with his eyes as much as he could, but it was hard to raise his head up enough to see, but he did see when the smoke appeared between his big toe and long toe, sneaked up the arch of his foot, slithered across the space to his left knee, going up the inside of his thigh and before he could even think about what it would do next it disappeared right into his asshole.

He flinched before his whole body cramped up and arched right off the stone as much as the bonds keeping him tied allowed.

He heard himself screamed like a wounded animal backed into a corner, knowing it would get torn apart by teeth feverish for blood.

There was water in his eyes, a whole lake dumped behind his eyelids and he couldn't see anything but a shimmering blur of dim light.

The invasion of smoke in his insides was burning like getting stabbed with a hot iron cattle prod into skin so sensitive it had never been meant to be touched.

He couldn't stop screaming even when he had no more air inside of him to keep him going, but he couldn't stop. He couldn't stop even when he could hear Sam shouting his name through it all. He was being slaughtered, ripped apart from the inside out, places filled up he had never ever even known existed.

He knew he screamed for his brother; he could feel the 'S' squeeze between his teeth and then the 'A' being so drawn out he started choking on how it was ripping his throat and he never even came to the 'M', just started with the 'S' again.

When his muscles relaxed in exhaustion and allowed his body to finally fall back down to the hard stone, the smoke shot out of the slit of his limp dick, and brought with it a burst of red piss that ran down the inside of his right thigh, soaking his lower body in seconds.

But he couldn't think about that, because before he could even gasp for a new breath of air, the tendril of smoke pierced into his navel, bulging out his belly, making it look as if a tiny creature was inside trying to box its way out with tiny fists.

"' _m right here, right here, right here … gonna be over soon, I promise. Ain't gonna leave you, not gonna leave you, no matter what. 'm not gonna, trust me, trust me, Dean, Dean, DEAN!"_

That was Sam; those were Sam's words, that was Sam's voice, somewhere where the pain hadn't reached yet, somewhere in his mind where the Hunter slept, there was Sam, curling all around him, smelling of Sam, just Sam. Brother, brother, just brother, baby brother, dimples in smiling cheeks … not leaving him. Never again leaving him.

When the smoke reached the center of his chest, it started to burn. Burn as if being set on fire from the inside out, the fiery agony making him start choking on the screams, no longer able to form his brother's name and that scared him more than not being able to breathe. He needed to cry out for Sam, he needed to know his brother was still there, but he couldn't. All he could do was struggle to breathe as the smoke squeezed his lungs like a vice. He was sobbing for air now, could feel wetness on his face, his neck … he was wheezing to chase away the dark spots that were already starting to appear before his wide open eyes. He could see nothing, he was sightless wishing he could see his brother, just hearing Sam in his mind wasn't enough. He wanted to see Sam. Wanted … wanted this to be over, Sam said it would be over soon, said it in his mind, said he'd never leave him.

He wanted to shout but all that came out of his mouth was bubbles of spit and blood mixed with weak coughs.

Sammy ...

He held on to the name when the smoke kept on with its torture, finally releasing his air-starved lungs, but then it attacked the bones of his ribs playing them like that pianist in that brothel did the black piano. From top to bottom, left to right, up and down the smoke flew its burning fingers until he thought all of his ribs would crack out of his skin.

Sammy …

The name was comfort, always had been ever since the day the body the name belonged to was taken. The name was something he'd mumbled in nights cold and dark as the Plague's core. The name had been something that had kept him sane across the border. Through time the name had stopped being just a name and began being something more solid; something he'd been actually able to touch. Wrap his fingers around and tell it things; dark, twisted things that lived in his soul, tell it his troubles and his secrets. Some kids had teddy bears, he had his brother's name.

And when the smoke started on his too fast beating heart, started fisting it as if trying to wring all the blood out of it and leave it a mushy pile of tissue, he cried out the name.

There were flashes of kaleidoscopic images shooting in front of his eyes whenever the smoke squeezed his heart;

Sam's first caught fish, a trout that had mad eyes and they threw it back into the water,

the first sip of whiskey he ever took that burned all the way down until he puked it all the way back up,

the first time his dad punched him, blackened his eye and split his lip,

the first time he said 'Sam' and Sam wasn't there to answer,

the first time he heard the sound of his Colt spit out a bullet,

the first time Impala threw him off her back,

the first time he was with a woman and when he took off his clothes, she screamed and stumbled away from him as if she'd been drunk,

the first time he pierced a heart with his sword and watched blood trickle from chapped lips,

the first time he cut off the head of a gnome gone berserk from the Plague,

the first time that he sat in the rocking chair below the window, holding Sam's warm, squirming body in his lap, laughing at how the diaper on Sam's butt made his baby brother look twice as big as he was,

the first time he heard Sam say 'Dean',

the first time he tried to roast a chicken and Ruby almost roasted him instead,

the first time he'd told Annabella that everything would be okay and lied,

the first time he saw Sam through pain sizzled eyes and felt his brother's hands be so different from any others,

the first time he'd stabbed someone who hadn't been ill,

the first time he saw his brother again after eighteen years …

… he wanted to _see_ , wanted to at least blink and spill all the tears his eyes were drowning in and see Sam, now, here. Tell his brother to 'fuuuuuuck this!', but the smoke released his heart then, leaving it a throbbing, abused and burned out muscle that was barely able to pump blood.

It went into his throat then, sneaking up his gullet and exploding out of his mouth with a river of thick, bloody spit following it. But the smoke didn't stop then; it went straight into his nose without even giving him a chance to catch his breath. He was straining against the bonds, trying to rip the strong leather apart, but it wouldn't budge. Wouldn't allow him any escape.

All of his muscles were bunched tight, coiled up and ready to snap.

He was trying to gasp in air to fill his starving lungs when he felt the smoke inside of his brain, like an irritating itch that he knew he'd never be able to scratch. Ever.

" _Right here Dean, right here, gonna be over soon, just a second more, I promise, I promise, not gonna leave you no matter what, I promise, no matter what, it's gonna be okay."_

He sobbed and arched his back right off the stone, screaming again when the smoke scratched at memories in his mind he never wanted anyone to poke at; because they were his and his alone – Sam gone, Sam gone, Sam gone, Dad dead, Sam gone, Sammy, Sam, brother. This was different though, different from when the smoke was trying to make his heart explode. This was just a brush of smoky tendrils across his most secret thoughts, his most guarded thoughts and memories and he cried out, feeling himself seize on the stone, pushing his body up into the air and down onto the stone.

Because those were his thoughts, his mourning, his pain that kept his nights restless, his and his alone.

" _All yours Hunter, yours to tell, never tell …"_

The voice was a thousand voices melted into one deep voice and it made him gasp and gasp and gasp, air tasting of coins into his lungs. His head lolled to the right just as the smoke spilled out of his ear to rush back onto Sam's hand to settle at its place.

The tail was protecting the tiny body again, calm, soft silver eyes staring right at his, glowing like silver fire before the light got snuffed out when Sam unglued his fingers from his sweaty skin.

His eyes cleared enough so that he could finally see Sam's concerned face, lips moving, talking, speaking to him probably, but all he could do was finally shout his brother's name and allow the dark to take him.

He knew darkness well, and strange as it might sound, darkness was soothing when it was the one inside his own head and not the one laying its sticky fingers all across the Land.

"It was b-b-black, Twirly, it was black, itwasblack, Twirly."

He couldn't believe it, he couldn't … it had been black. He wanted to fall to his knees, right on the ground and weep, but he just looked at Twirly and smiled: "It was black, Twirly…"

"I saw Sam, I saw."

Twirly's big grin sucked him right in and he sagged in relief, smiling a goofy smile he thought he'd never smile again. He placed his left palm on Dean's forehead, wiping away the sweat and the tears that seemed to find their way all over Dean's face. He wiped his hand on his cloak and put his hand back on Dean's forehead, swiping his thumb across his brother's eyebrows, smoothing the frown there.

"He's not sick, he's not. He's okay, he's okay …"

His heart was beating wildly in his chest, quite possibly even faster than Dean's was … his brother was healthy. He … there was no Plague in him, none. He was okay, he was okay. The smoke said Dean was okay, the smoke said he was healthy and the smoke was never wrong.

And now that his tattoo was settled and vibrating under his skin again, he could feel it; how _strong_ Dean was, how much pain his brother carried, how much Dean had sacrificed to be who he was, how hard his road had been. He could feel it all, it was like a drum song in his veins, giving him a headache. He knew the feeling would be over in a second or two, but the memories of it would remain until the day he'd die.

"He is Sam, he really is."

Sam looked from Twirly's grin-split face back to Dean whose eyelids were closed, but his eyes were moving rapidly beneath the thin skin. Unconscious, dreaming, resting. His chest was heaving; wheezing breaths coming from his parted, blood slicked lips. His brother was bleeding through every place the smoke entered; there was a sluggish line of blood and piss running out of the slit to smear on his thigh, blood welling up in his navel, dripping out of his nose and ears. His mouth had a line of it running down towards his hair, his chin was bloody as well, but it was all fixable. Some water and a cloth and Dean would be all clean again in no time.

"Untie him."

He worked on the bonds, hissing when he could see their impressions on the inside of Dean's wrist; but that would all heal, would leave no more marks on his brother's already marked body. The same deep impressions were around Dean's ankles, but that would all heal too. He ran his hands over the welts, massaging them a bit, getting the blood flowing and adding aloe vera to his mental list of what all Dean would need after they'd leave from here.

"All done, Sam."

"Great, great," he walked back up to Dean's head, "Dean? Hey, hey can you hear me? Hey, wake up…"

It was a possibility especially because Dean was healthy that his brother could hear him and the groan he received told him that yeah, Dean was there with them. Still shaking from the shock, but there. Alive. And healthy.

"Twirly, get a blanket, and, and I'll take him to Charlie. There's nowhere else, just … yeah, Charlie."

Just when Twirly's short, thin fingers were fighting with the thick, wool-blanket, loud thunder shook the chamber; some candles flickered to their death, some tiny rocks slid down the walls, Twirly squeaked and gasped and Dean groaned and cried out at the sudden movement that rocked his stinging wounds.

"He is awake?"

The words were spoken with a growl, but there was no malice behind it, the voice too soft for anything but concern.

"Youngest."

Sam hadn't expected this. It wasn't often that one of the Herd visited the Questioning, actually it had never happened before, not to Sam's knowledge or perhaps it had and no one had told him that yet. But the visit hadn't shocked him, just made him weary of what the youngest of the Herd wanted.

"He responded to me asking if he can hear me, he should wake up soon."

The youngest was floating, hovering above Dean's twitching legs, its huge head cocked to the side, examining. Calculating. Thinking and re-thinking. The blue of his eyes was so bright that it lit up the chamber from ground to ceiling, casting a bluish hue on everything making all the blood and sweat on Dean glow like the sky on old paintings.

"Hello Dean."

Sam looked from the youngest to his brother and could see Dean's eyes opened in a tiny slit, just enough for the green to shine through. There were fat tears spilling from their corners, sliding down to his brother's wet hair to mix with the blood already there. A river of pink spit ran from the left corner of Dean's parted mouth and he swiped the palm of his hand over it, not even thinking that Dean might not like that. But it was done and Dean said nothing, just smacked his lips together and coughed out a "He-ey."

"Are you well?"

The snort at that made Dean cough wetly and more bloody saliva spilled out of his mouth. He watched as his brother tried to raise his weak head up, tried to move his hands to help himself, but his muscles were too exhausted to support the movements yet.

"Dean, hey," he placed his hands under Dean's heavy head, his fingers slipping in the wet, short hair, "don't move," and gently and slowly raised it up, ignoring Dean's groan, "can you spit out?"

"Ugghhhh…"

"Come on, man, spit it out, come on."

He and Twirly had seen a lot of things happen in this room, his brother spitting blood would be on the very low scale of things. But he'd never tell that to Dean. There were some things that would and should stay in this chamber; between him and Twirly and the person on the stone.

"Spit, c'mon."

He cursed under his breath, raising Dean up a bit more and climbing up on the stone slab. He had to curse some more when his sword got caught on the stone's serrated edge, but Twirly – the good Fae that he was – pushed the sword up a bit, allowing him to slide on his calves, placing his brother's head on his thighs.

The stone was hard, cold and unforgiving on his knees and shins but finally getting his brother's upper body a little bit more elevated, was worth it when he could hear Dean breathe a little easier.

"'kay you good now, we're good now, yeah? Okay…"

Whatever Sam was doing behind his back was sending pings of white hot pain up and down his spine, but as soon as his brother's hands disappeared and something else appeared underneath his head and shoulders, raising him up, he sighed. He still couldn't really spit, feeling too shaky and tender in all the very wrong places so he just opened his mouth wider and allowed for everything that was in there to just freely run out and cascade down to his chest. He was a mess, but he'd rather be a mess than be sick. All of this would be washed off, but the Plague – you couldn't wash that off just like that.

"'s it, c'mon, we'll wash it later, just get it all out."

It made Sam grimace seeing everything flow out of Dean's mouth like a waterfall, but his brother was alive, healthy and back in his life. Things would be … different now.

But would they be? Really? He was still the Inquisitor and Dean was still the Hunter and they wouldn't be able to just throw away their statuses, go to the drinking house and drink themselves under the table. They'd still have their obligations, their sworn obligations to the Land.

Dean would be gone for days sometimes, he knew that, the Hunter's job was hunting, scouting, searching, while he … he'd be called in at any hour of the day, any day and he'd have to leave and come back and try so damn hard to hide what being an Inquisitor was doing to him.

Dean's head was shaking in his lap and as he looked down at the top of his brother's head – hair slicked with blood and sweat and tears – maybe they both carried similar battle scars, maybe he wouldn't have to hide anything from Dean, because Dean … he already knew.

"Just spit it all out, Dean…" he whispered, not sure if his brother heard him.

"I will take that as a no."

"Ttt-t'ke," more warm bloody spit spilled from his lips, running down between his pecs, "it as yah want."

"I will take it as a no."

He rolled his eyes and tried to move, tried to curl up into himself and grab hold of his stomach. He was going to puke, everything in his belly rebelling being where it was. He felt empty and violated, felt as if every fragment of his being had been poked and prodded at, shifted and then aligned back. But the smoke that had invaded him, the smoke that had come from his brother's tattoo had left fingerprints on him, inside of him, in his damn mind. It touched him places ... places that he couldn't even begin to consider how to touch and they were his, his own, but the smoke ... he could still feel its ticklish breath on the inside of his ribs, over the tissue of his heart, in his veins ... he'd never be able to rub the feeling away, never scrub it away.

"Sammy?"

He tried to at least flail his hand, tried to grab hold of something, anything but the cold, wet stone he was lying on. But his muscles weren't obeying him, probably wouldn't for a while. He was stuck here, lying like a sacrifice spread before one of the Herd and his brother.

"Yeah, 'm right here…"

A nod made him gurgle and he pushed a glob of spit out of his mouth with a tongue feeling as thick and heavy as a tree trunk.

"I have come here to give you something, Hunter."

Sam's head snapped up at that, curious of what the youngest of the Herd could possibly have for Dean and his eyes widened when he saw what it was.

A black cord.

A horned face.

An amulet.

The same one Miss Daisy had given him _that_ day. She'd placed it into his small, blister-covered palm and whispered to him that it was a protective charm meant to be given to someone special, someone he believed in, someone he loved more than life itself. He'd put it in his pocket but then Mr. Singer had taken him and he never managed to give the necklace to the only person that ever mattered. And now here it was. Right there, dangling from the lower jaw of the youngest, the cord trapped between sharp teeth, swaying back and forth, finally getting to where it was meant to go all those years ago.

"Don'thhh do j'elry." he coughed and hissed as a trickle of blood spilled out of his asshole.

This was worse than … actually he didn't really know …

"It is not _jewelry_ ," the youngest spat out the word as if it offended him and made his mouth sour, "it is what belongs to you. It was designed for you, when the Land had still been," the look in his bright blue eyes got sad, "… vibrant."

"W-what'ver you sss-say."

"I will leave it here. Take good care of it."

The necklace was dropped from the jaw, making Dean grunt when the small horned head hit him right in the middle of his sternum.

"Ffff-ffuck … oww, oww…"

The youngest cocked his head again: "Are you cold? Twirly where is the blanket?"

"Coming youngest."

The blanket was white wool, soft and almost too hot after a few seconds of it lying on top of him, but at least he was covered now. Even though the blood and other various bodily fluids stained the pristine white of it right away, it was still the softest and the most stunning wool blanket he had ever had the luck of having on him.

"I shall leave you for now, but not for long."

"Jjj-just go Casss-sstiel."

The words were followed by an eye roll and a coughing fit that finally send him back to oblivion. Darkness wasn't as dark as it once had been, there was a shape like a beaconing signal somewhere in the distance, waving to him to calm down and rest.

So he rested.

The way Dean's head became even heavier on his thighs, came as a surprise, but after the coughing fit his brother just went through it was to be expected.

He watched as Castiel nodded and disappeared with a flutter of wings.

"Charlie now, Sam?"

He looked at Twirly who was patiently sitting on top of Dean's blanket-covered legs, the Faery's whole body sparkling green.

"Yeah, Twirly … Charlie. Get his horse ready to ride."

"Already done."

"Good."

 

**\- CHAPTER 4 -**

 

The sky looked as if someone lost control of a paint brush; sweeping lines of purple, orange, blue and red all mixing out on the Western horizon, where the sun was a bloody red globe, slowly setting. When Sam had finally wrapped the heavy blanket around his brother's body and fastened it with some rope, he draped Dean's limp body over his shoulder and carried him out of the cave's chamber, his strides long and fast.

The ceiling of the wide, tall corridor leading to the exit was littered with stalactites, their pointy tips covered with shining white minerals lighting the way towards freedom.

Twirly was back in his animal form, flying over his head, wanting to get out to the fresh air as much as he did and when they finally stepped through the cave's mouth, the sky greeted them.

"Night's gonna fall soon, Twirly."

_hoot_

"Yeah, go."

_hoot_

He hadn't had time to watch Twirly fly into the gnarly, dried up looking bunch of trees that were guarding the entrance because Impala's blow made him turn around and come face to black muzzle and questioning eyes.

"Impala."

He'd never met her, never been officially introduced, but he _sensed_ her name and hoped that she wouldn't bite or kick him. He was good with horses, but she belonged to Dean, not to him, and he knew she'd only obey Dean's commands.

"Dean looks bad, but he's all right, I promise."

He smiled when she butted Dean's blanket covered ass with her muzzle and allowed him to stroke her forehead for a second or two. He knew that Dean must've found her and taken her in, must've made her trust him without truly taking the wild soul that he could still see in her shining black eyes.

She was wild, yes, but she was wildly protective of his brother too and he knew they'd get along just fine as soon as she'd sense that he wouldn't hurt Dean. Ever.

"Okay, okay, get ready now…" he whispered while trying to carefully slide Dean on the horse's broad back, "whoa steady, hold him."

She made a few steps forward and backwards, as if testing the weight and when she became satisfied that yeah, that sure was her Master lying like a sack of potatoes on her back, she stilled and looked back at him as if asking him 'now what?'

He had to stroke her left flank a few times, just because. "There you go girl," he said while adjusting Dean's legs until she calmed down and he could steer her in the right direction.

West it was and perhaps the sun would stay up long enough for them to get to Charlie's place before full dark.

She really was a beauty of a horse; Dean took good care of her and that care could be seen everywhere. She was strong, well fed, broad, with a long bushy tail and well groomed mane. Her step was light and she handled Dean's abused body with similar care as a mother did with her newborn.

He walked beside her left side, occasionally slapping her flank or nudging Dean's legs and in the still of the Land preparing for sleep he whispered: "He's gonna be okay, ya know?" which made her nod her head and nicker softly.

The trek to Charlie's home wasn't a long one, took an hour if it did, but navigating through the dried thorny bushes and low dried tree branches was a task Sam didn't really want to repeat anytime soon.

He'd seen every part of the Land, every hidden nook and cranny, every place where only shadows could live, he knew every rock and every stone, knew where the burrows were and where any and all houses were. He knew his homeland from the inside out, and it never ever ceased to sadden him to see what it had become under the attack of the Plague. He'd seen pictures on walls and on fragile parchments, pictures of how it had been before disaster struck, seen trees have leaves, seen grass be green and standing erect, seen the sky have white clouds … even if he'd never 'seen' all that with his own two eyes and touched it all with his own two hands, he still longed for it all. Missed it, wondered how it would feel like to touch a leave grown from a tree's branch; would it be soft, raspy, thin, thick, smooth? Because all around him were stooped branches, dried up and almost char black.

The disease not only killed its way through people, it killed its way through flora and fauna too. Killed it all; the spirit and the colors and the soul.

And meandering his way through the crumbling forest, he had to take care of himself, his brother and Impala; that were two beings more than usual and it was something he'd never done before. He always only took care of himself, watched where he put his own foot, watched when to bend his own back … but now he had to look out for two more and he found out that it was a task both hard and not unwelcomed.

He couldn't have either of them step on a wayward thorn and injure themselves, couldn't have them get pinned down by a falling branch, Dean'd be pissed if that'd happen.

He glanced at his brother; as it was, Dean was sleeping, bent over Impala's back, fingers intertwined with her thick, shiny mane.

The scrawny, thorny bushes soon made way for tree stumps; trees killed to be spared the agony of decades of suffering. Sam knew Dean had probably chopped down some himself, no matter how much the trees resisted.

He sighed and steered Impala more to the right. They were getting close to where Charlie lived - where she'd always lived - as her home wasn't in the village, but out on the outskirts by the huge dry oak tree that was still resisting the fungi that were starting to eat their way up its trunk.

The oak also guarded her Granny; a headstone to her grave for two years now. He'd heard of the elder woman's passing through the grapevine – the drunk talk too much, especially if the drunk in question was Doc Turner – and came to pay his respect to the woman he had taken a child and had nearly taken the granddaughter from, too. He'd stood in the shadows and watched as Charlie dug up the hole all by herself with a shovel barely strong enough to lift up a pile of dry soil. But she'd done it and had dragged her Granny's stiff body into the grave, covering it all up before she'd fallen down on her knees and wept.

He'd been silent, not daring to move, not daring to even breathe. He'd just watched her give in to her grief, knowing full well what kind of pain grieving was, had even known how it smelled; like beech wood smoke and leather.

He'd cried like that too, when he'd woken up without Dean there beside him for the first time. He knew the hurt of missing, the pain of losing something that nothing could ever replace.

After the tears had stopped running and her bowed back had straightened, he left her there alone. If she'd spotted him … he didn't know what would've happened, but he couldn't've allowed for that.

She had her own path to walk on and he his, but he'd kept an eye on her and was pleased to see where her life had taken her.

She grew up strong and defiant, she grew up nosy and took crap from no one or from anything. She grew up to be a healer, taking what her Granny had taught her and what the Faeries had taught her. She was different from Doc Turner, she took from the earth and the water. Took from the air and the creatures living among them. She took knowledge and she took ingredients for her medications.

Doc Turner was more blood work and tests, while Charlie was more blood offerings and prayer.

And right now, Doc Turner really wasn't the one Dean needed, wasn't who could even begin to start helping his brother. The rule was that if a person was found healthy, they went back to their families to be taken care of. Anyone could wash blood off of skin, anyone could bandage the scrapes from the stone, anyone could keep an eye on the bruises formed during the Questioning so there was no need for the healthy people to go to the infirmary. They'd just get sick there and what would be the point then.

As Dean had no one but him and while Sam could help, Charlie was better and would have Dean up and about in no time.

He believed that as he tucked Dean's limp, clammy arm back under the blanket and patted Impala's flank: "He'll be okay."

Bruises and scrapes would heal, but the Questioning probably left a lot of scars on Dean's mind, an itch inside of his body and that … they'd waddle through together if and when his brother would allow for that.

When Impala finally stepped out into the clearing, he saw that everything was just as he remembered; the oak tree – the fungi spreading even more in all the years he'd been gone – the patch of soil beneath the tree looking as if it had just been freshly dug and the cottage.

"Come …"

Impala trotted closer to the cottage, stopped and snorted.

"All good, girl, 's all good," he soothed the mare and stroked her forehead.

He saw right away that the thin wooden door had been replaced by a sturdier one, the windows were still small but a yellow light could be seen shining from them. Charlie was paying for electricity out of the money people gave her when she helped them with their problems.

"'kay, now I'm gonna get Dean off you."

He didn't tie Impala anywhere, just slipped Dean's heavy body off of her back and sent her grazing. She was probably hungry and thirsty, in need of getting some of her strength back; Dean was a heavy load to carry, he knew that from experience and even now when he had Dean's body draped over his shoulder again, his brother was as heavy as a rock. All muscle and unconsciousness.

She wouldn't be needed for some time and she knew that. She'd probably even go to the Herd and spend some time with the children there, letting herself be petted to death and get her mane braided – Dean would love that – and she'd come back when Dean would be strong enough to call for her.

Sam knew that a bond between the Hunter and his or her horse was strong, sewn together with blood, trust and time.

Adjusting Dean in his hands, hefting him a little higher on his shoulder, he tried not to think of the last time he had carried him like this to be healed. But this time, at least he knew that Dean would really, really be all right - be just fine in a couple of days under Charlie's watchful eyes and knowing hands.

He took a deep breath and knocked on the door with his boot, wincing at the booming sound. Charlie would probably chew him a new one for that, but he'd handle that if it meant that it would get Dean on the road to healing sooner.

An almost frail looking girl with long, red hair tied into a loose ponytail opened the door and Sam could see murder in her eyes. Her mouth was already slightly open to curse at him, but then her eyes landed on the blood covered blanket in his arms.

"Inquisitor," she gasped, her hand flying to her chest, her fingers tangling with the intricately designed cross that was still hanging from a black leather string around her neck. He remembered taking that necklace off of her when she'd been lying on the same stone Dean had just an hour or so ago. She'd cried and begged him not to take it, sobbing for that silver pendant of waving lines and all he could do was stroke her hair and whisper that she'd get it back when it would all be over.

He hadn't lied.

"I … I had nowhere else to go."

It was the truth. Everyone he'd ever known was dead, Charlie was the only one … and he knew she'd help him out, no matter the past. She was a Healer, bound to her word she gave to the Herd and the Land and if she wouldn't allow him inside her home, she would allow his brother.

And that was fine with him too as long as Dean was in good hands, he could step away and leave him alone.

"Does, uhh, does anyone know where you are?"

"Mr. Singer knows, probably, and Castiel knows, 'm sure, and so the Herd does too and, and, Twirly. But no one else. I swear."

"And Death?" Her voice dropped into a whisper, fear lacing it, "does he know? 'cause I don't want him in my home, Inquisitor."

"Dean won't die, Charlie. We ... we'll take care of him. Death won't come and even if he will, I'll talk to him."

She nodded, satisfied with the answer and then her eyes widened: "We?"

"Uh, you, me. He's my brother, Charlie."

He knew he was begging now, but begging wasn't beneath him, not even if he was Grand Master Inquisitor and everything was at his disposal. This was his brother they were talking about and he'd do anything for him.

"I know, Inquisitor."

"Sam, please, just Sam."

She hung her head down, making a stray strand of hair fall over her shoulder and nodded: "Sam."

"Just Sam, Charlie, all right?"

She left out a breath while moving away from the door and allowing him to enter: "Bring him in, we'll get him on the bed in Granny's room."

The kitchen was exactly as he remembered; the closet, the stove with water again boiling on top of it, the table with the chairs. But now it was a bouquet of flowers in a vase on top of it and not half burned candles.

It was a warm home, smelled of sharp herbs, some eucalyptus oil, mint too.

"I spilled a, uh, a vial of eucalyptus oil yesterday. Still hasn't aired out, but hey," she waved her hands around the room, "it cleaned my sinuses like crazy. Snot everywhere."

He smiled: "Uh, yeah…" and followed her down a very short hallway and through an open door. He saw the bed and walked towards it, bending over to place Dean's body on the short bed. His brother's feet hung off the mattress but it would have to do.

"So, the Questioning, I presume?"

He turned around and saw her stand between the doorframe, her hands nervously twisting and turning the fabric of her long dark red skirt. She seemed scared and nervous and a lot embarrassed. And angry, but the anger was nicely hidden under a lot of awkwardness.

He smiled and hoped that it came out as a gentle smile and not a grimace: "You presume right."

"Blood and shock? Anything else happened?"

"Blood and shock, yeah and I didn't notice anything different."

"Nothing at all?"

"Charlie …" he sighed and almost kicked himself when she averted her eyes from his, blushing to the tips of her ears, the color clashing with her fiery red hair.

"No, just asking. 's fine, uhh, yeah, so … so we should uh, see … see what we can see. Maybe clean him up a bit, I'll … you know, get water. I have some hot … you know, water on the stove."

And this was exactly why he never made contact with people he Questioned. The currents of embarrassment were like waves that he could actually capture in his hand and hold them in his fist. He couldn't even begin to imagine what all of this would be like when Dean would wake up. Sure they were brothers, but that meant so little when they hadn't seen each other in years.

"Charlie," his hand shot out and lightly gripped her delicate wrist, cringing at the look in her eyes. She didn't want to have him here, she didn't want to talk, didn't want to think of what had happened to her, didn't want him to bring up those memories. She was only tolerating him here because of his brother. Because of her word to the Land.

He let her go; the tremors beneath his touch made him wanna throw up. He'd done all that to her. He'd done all that to so many others.

"'s fine Sam. 'm fine. I'll get you that water and you can clean your brother up. Just clean the uh, blood and uh other … stuff … and yeah, just …"

"Yeah, all right. I'll do that."

"Be right back, just don't uncover him yet, I don't wanna see … see him."

"I can do that."

"G-great then."

After she left the room he wiped his hands down his face, trying to chase away the weariness he could feel trying to settle in his bones and wake himself up a bit. Cleaning up his brother would be an important task and he would do it the best he could.

He did unwrap Dean's chest though, sure that Charlie wouldn't be affected by that; it was just a chest, something she probably saw a lot of when healing and the small eyes on the amulet Castiel gave to his brother stared right at him.

"Huh …"

He picked up the black cord, bringing it closer to his eyes, needing to see it up close. It dangled from his fingers, swaying towards Dean as if wanting to go to his brother. Now.

"Where did you get that?"

The voice that seemingly just came out of nowhere startled him and he almost dropped the necklace as if he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He turned around and saw Charlie's eyes as huge as the moon and her slim fingers were gripping the basin of water with knuckles turned white.

"The youngest of the Herd gave it to Dean. Why?"

"N-nothing," she shook her head, "nothing. Uh, here's the water," she pushed the white, chipped basin to his chest so hard the water sloshed across the edges, wetting up his shirt, "the rags are in the … the uh there in the drawer. By the bed. Clean him good and wrap him up in a clean blanket. Lower drawer. And then … I don't know, just … clean him up."

Her stammering and the pure avoidance of him and his presence was making him sad. He never wanted any of this, he'd never wanted to be an Inquisitor, he'd never wanted to do that to people, hurt them. But it was what was in his blood, he was helping the Land, he was doing good, wasn't he?

"Sammy," the croak of his name made him spin around to face his brother, "hear ya thinkin' to here."

Well, damn then. He really thought that he'd be able to do this with his brother still unconscious or at least sleeping, but his brother had always been a stubborn ass.

"Hey," he turned around fully, still holding the basin that smelled of lavender soap and the cord of the amulet still hanging from his forefinger, the head gravitating even more towards Dean now. "So," he raised the basin, "washing time. Do you want help or are you …"

"Awkward…"

"T'yeah."

"I'll, uh, I'll just leave you two alone, I've got … potatoes and stuff, uh, boiling, should go, I'll just go, yeah, okay…"

She didn't walk away, she ran away as if someone lit a fire under her heels.

"So?"

"So?"

"Who's she?"

"Charlie, the Healer."

"Oh…"

"Yeah."

Awkward; the silence and not knowing where to look, what to say, what to do. Sam felt like an oaf standing there by the bed, holding the steaming basin and Dean's newly acquired jewelry and …

"Uh, Sam, you know what," he looked at Dean and hissed at how hoarse his brother's voice sounded, "why don't ya gimme that amulet there, huh?"

"Yeah, sure, of course."

"'s weird, ya know? I feel naked without it."

He snorted: "Dude, you are naked."

"Yeah, well … not my fault."

The words made him flinch, because yes, it wasn't Dean's fault he was airing his skin from top to bottom.

"Sam, don't … not your fault, 'kay?"

His brother could always read him;

want a story? No! Get comfy.

want juice? No! Here's a glass.

you tired? No! Go get a nap.

wanna play? No! Here's a ball.

wanna torture me? No! It's okay.

"Sure."

He placed the basin on a little nightstand that was looking as if it would tumble down on Dean's head any minute now and looked at the amulet. It felt heavy in his hand, as if it really did want to go to Dean, needed to go to Dean and finally, he'd be able to give it to his brother. Should've given it to him so many years ago, but better late than never, was what Mr. Singer always said.

"Here," when Dean didn't reach for it, he frowned, but then remembered that maybe Dean couldn't really move yet so he leaned forward, pushing and pulling the black cord around Dean's head and placed the head to lay straight on his brother's sweaty skin. He stroked the amulet with his finger, mesmerized that it was still just as it had been when Miss Daisy had given it to him. He didn't know if he should ever tell his brother about any of that, didn't know if that would make Dean sad or happy or pissed. With his brother anything would be possible.

"So, man, how're you feeling?"

Dean's hand joined his finger on the amulet and he tried to pull away, but Dean wasn't having that: "Sam? What?"

"What what?" he was pretty sure his voice came out as a squeak, but he was absolutely not prepared for Dean squeezing his finger so hard, he was scared it would get broken.

He looked up at Dean, noticing how his brother's skin looked clammy, feverish and still covered in so much blood. Dean was squinting, raising his eyebrow – as if in knowing. Dean knew, of course his big brother knew. Was he really, for real that transparent? Twirly always said that he wore his mind and his heart on his sleeve, but he always just scoffed at that and moved on. But maybe Twirly had been right.

"Ever since Castiel gave me the amulet, you've been … I don't know … acting weird."

"Acting weird?"

He was stalling, trying to make Dean annoyed enough so that he'd drop this, forget all about this and move on. But no, Dean was like a dog with a bone, chewing on it until there was nothing left.

"Sammy, c'mon …"

Dean was pleading and he couldn't have that. If they really wanted to be brothers again, have a life with each other in it, then perhaps having secrets wasn't a good start.

"When I was at Miss Daisy," he cleared his throat, "she … she gave me that amulet, said to give it to someone I loved more than anything, to someone I believed in. And … and I wanted to give it to you that night. But then … well …"

"Sammy…"

"'s fine, now it's yours and you have it even if it took years. I guess Mr. Singer found it on me and gave it to the Herd or something," he waved his hand, "'s not important."

"Okay, well … if you'd have given it to me back then I would've said thank you, Sammy. And that I love it."

He could only nod to that and hope that his eyes weren't betraying him and becoming teary. He'd hear no end to the mocking he was sure, but he finally had his brother back and Dean wasn't sad or angry or even too happy about what he'd told him. He just accepted it with a spark in his eyes and a grin on his face.

"And," Dean finally released the finger he had been smushing against the amulet's horns, "to answer your question, I feel okay."

"Okay, that's good. 'cause after what you'd been through you should've been … uh, not well for at least a couple more days."

A couple more years, really, but he couldn't say that to Dean although they both knew it anyway.

"Well, what can I say, I feel good. I still have half of my body's blood on me, probably like half a pint of piss, but inside … I feel okay. Really shaky, like I'm cold. Shudders and stuff, probably wouldn't be able to stand up right now, but..."

That was … unexpected, because what Dean should be doing right now was sleep. Then puking his guts out, then sleeping, then not eating for a few days, then having nightmares and other terrors, but definitely not being awake and talking.

"Huh…"

"Huh…"

They both looked down at the amulet that lay perfectly still, silent and innocent between Dean's blood-covered pecs, an inch away from the tattoo and then looked back at each other.

"Well, damn."

"Yeah."

What the hell had Castiel done? What was that thing really? What did Miss Daisy knew?

"When you were out, did you … feel anything? See anything?"

"You mean the little horned head appearing in my dreams and healing me?"

"Somethin' like that."

"No, nothin'."

"Huh."

"The Herd, Sam … they are something, huh?"

"That they are."

The water in the basin was hot enough to turn the whole room wet with steam, and the white smoke rising from the flower painted porcelain drew Sam's attention.

"Uh," he scratched the back of his neck, "Charlie said that the rags are in the drawer, if you wanna use 'em."

"Yeah, definitely."

He knew Dean felt sticky with sweat, blood and other fluids, itchy where he really didn't want to itch and some nice hot water would do wonders on him and his muscles.

"Sam, hey can I get a glass of water? Wanna wash my mouth, drink some."

"Yeah, yeah sure … I'll be back, you know what? Just yell for me, I don't wanna … while you wash. Are you gonna be okay? Sure you don't need any help?"

"I'll be okay, 'm getting feeling back in my hands."

He smiled when Dean raised his hands and wiggled his fingers, a grin showing Dean's white teeth.

"'kay, great."

He turned around towards the open door, slumped his shoulders and prepared himself to walk into that kitchen, face Charlie and ask her if he could get a glass of water.

It felt as if someone had asked him to cross the border and never come back.

He found her sitting at the table, her back to him and he leaned against the doorframe, allowing his eyes to roam around the kitchen. It was just as it had been when he'd come and Collected Charlie. All the memories of all of his Collects were in his mind, sometimes locked, sometimes he unlocked them and tried to convince himself that what he did was what he had to do.

He cleared his throat and walked into the room, rounding the table to the free chair opposite Charlie. There were flowers scattered all over the table, the sound of scissors loud now that he could see she was cutting the flowers from narrow, wiry stems.

"Thymes, 's good in tea, better with roasted chicken."

He nodded and bit his lip, not knowing what to say to that.

"Can I …"

"I never hated you Sam."

… get a glass of water. Well.

"Okay."

"I was scared," she huffed and snipped off another small white-purple head from the stem, "terrified. I've … you know, heard stories of the Questioning," she huffed as her lips formed a smile, "no one really knew the truth, huh? They all told different things, different … I don't know, memories of it. Well, the ones who," she gathered the cut flowers in a pile with her palm, "weren't sick."

He moved his sword to his side as he slowly lowered himself on the chair opposite her and placed his hands on the scratched table: "Charlie…"

The aroma of the flowers made him take a deep breath, the scent sharp, but mild and it calmed him down to the point of feeling really mellow. He knew Charlie wasn't the Witch, so she wasn't casting a spell on him, but even a Healer knew a thing or two about potions and magical plants.

Was Charlie so angry at him that she'd subtly kill him? Then kill Dean?

"Charlie, I'm …"

He didn't get to finish, because she steamrolled right over him and he knew right then and there that she needed to get out whatever it was that she needed to tell him. He could take it, whatever it was that she'd say to him, scream at him, call him names and cuss at him, he could take it.

It was the least he could do.

"Had nightmares for months," she laughed as if it was the funniest thing, "always dreamed of," she peeked at him through her hair, "you. Heard y-your words, felt y-your hand on my," she looked at her delicate forearm, skin so pale it was almost milky white, "woke up wet with sweat screaming your name. Granny told me, time and time again that you said it would be like that, but …" she lowered her voice into a whisper he barely heard over the sound of something boiling on the stove and the crackle of fire wood heating up the place, "I really wanted to just find you and say t-thank you."

Thank you? What had she needed to be thankful for? He took her from her home, he went with her into her preparing memory where he watched her play with a doll with her long dead mom, tied her up naked on that cold block of stone and tortured her, made her scream and cry and shout and bleed. Made her be humiliated, mortified. He still remembered how she'd tried to squirm away, he remembered how everyone tried to get away from him. He'd crushed her spirit and broken her body … why would she be thanking him for that?

"I … I … I don't …?" he whispered back and felt like an idiot. Like an elephant in a china store, breaking all the finest of porcelain.

"It, when the smoke, when it," she blushed and looked down at the thymes' flowers that were all in a pile now and scattered them all over the table with one sweep of her hand, "entered me, you whispered to me that you were right there, that you believed that I was h-hhhealthy, that I was all right, t-t-that the smoke wouldn't find anything, that you were watching over me, that you'd watch over me, even if," she tore some small oval leaves off the herb's stems and twisted it between her fingers, making the entire room explode with fresh exquisite aroma, "I was sick. That you wouldn't leave me."

He always told that to everyone; slight variations of it, depending on who he had on the stone, but he always meant it. Always. He was there with them in the cave's chamber, and he'd be there with them even if they'd been found sick and taken to the infirmary. He'd be there with them until they'd draw in their last breath. No one deserved to be alone no matter how they caught the disease – be it their own fault or the fault of others – no one deserved to suffer alone.

"Gave me hope, you know? I didn't want to be alone. G-granny was all I … I had, but she wouldn't've been allowed to visit me there and I didn't want," a tear slipped down her nose onto the aromatic flowers, "to die alone."

"Charlie…"

"And you said you wouldn't let me die alone, if..."

"Hey, Charlie..." he leaned forward a bit, trying to grab for her hand, but she rose from her chair so suddenly he bounced back, nearly toppling off.

"But, hey, 's okay now," she walked toward the stove to stir something that smelled mouthwatering, "I wasn't ill, so … and Granny took care of me, took real good care of me, until ... she died. I … I saw you when I buried her, why … you could've come closer."

"I didn't know." He whispered. If he'd known, he'd come closer that day. He definitely would.

"I should've called you out."

He nodded down to the table, his own eyes watering a little. If Charlie was like this, how were the ones that survived his Questioning feeling? How were they surviving? Would they treat him like this too? Or would they hate his guts and try to kill him?

"You're doing a good thing, Sam, saving lives, hunting this … this killer," she spat out the word like some spit tobacco, "and Dean, he's a Hunter and he's doing the same thing, just with creatures going mad with this disease. It's all okay, you know? Balances itself out."

He got up from the chair and walked toward her, stopping her hand from stirring the potato pieces into mashed ones, 'cause that wasn't how the dish was supposed to be and turned her around to press her against his chest.

"Oh, uh, okay so you're a hugger, nice … nice to know." She patted his chest with her palms as one does a dog before saying 'good doggie'.

"It's okay you know?"

"Yup, tooooootally okay, 'm okay, you're okay, your brother's okay. We're all okay, so … now … I have to make us all some dinner, so …"

"'s fine."

"Mhm, fine. You know what else is fine? The soup 'm gonna make, really fine. Smooth as velvet, has dumplings too."

"You're okay …"

"Pffft, I'm awesome. So, the soup?"

He swayed them left and right a bit, being careful so that her lower back didn't touch the hot stove and smoothed his palm down her long silky soft hair just as he'd done when he had taken her necklace away for the Questioning: "You were really brave then, Charlie. Didn't cry at all."

"Pfffft, what you talkin' 'bout? I wept like a baby."

"No, you didn't. Not where it didn't count."

"Hah, yeah … no, I just …"

"… you did what everyone else does."

"I was sixteen Sam, terrified of my own damn shadow."

"And now you're strong, smart, helping people and probably kicking the shadow's ass, huh?"

"'cause of you. Believe me, 'm here," she tapped his chest with her palm, "'cause of you."

"No, you're not. This is all on you."

"No, no," she shook her head against his sternum, first drops of tears already wetting his shirt, joining in with the water he'd spilled all over himself earlier, "… no, 's cause y-you said you wouldn't leave me alone. No matter what, you said you'd be there and I held on to that when the smoke … and your voice in my head … and, and now … now I'm there for people. 'm there for them 'cause no one deserves to be alone."

"Yeah," he kissed the top of her head when she curled up into him, "you are. You're doing good here, helping the Land's people get better, be better."

She nodded and sobbed: "You too."

"Yeah, me too."

She nodded again and released a sob that made her whole body shudder in his arms. He didn't have the strength to tell her that what he did as help was torture, while she did everything with a smile on her face and kind words.

He watched the potatoes boil while she cried.

"Son of a bitch!"

She pushed at his chest at the sound of Dean's voice and stumbled backwards, but he caught her before she'd fall on the stove and burn herself.

"Made your shirt all wet, damn it, 'm so sorry. Just … crap, sorry."

"Hey, 's okay, I spilled water all over it earlier, so … 's no big deal. Are you okay?"

"I'm better than your brother, I think."

"Yeah, he … even when we were kids, he … ah," he shook his head, not really finding the right words to describe to someone how Dean had been as a kid. No one would understand it anyway, "I'll go see what he wants. And I should take him a glass of water, or he'll bitch."

"Sure, yes, yeah, of course, his mouth … and blood. Yeah water is in that pitcher and glasses are on that shelf. And I'll make us some dinner."

"That would be great, Charlie."

She turned back to the stove to get the potatoes off and onto the counter: "Half an hour, sounds good?"

"Sounds perfect."

"So," he chuckled and crossed his arms across his wet chest, "can't even get under a blanket by yourself, then?"

"Shut up," the words were a growl, "I wanted to get up, and go take a leak see if I piss blood too, but … my legs, just … let me all on my own."

"That's … okay," he clasped his hands together, "let's get you back to bed and covered with a blanket before I go and get you some clothes. Then you'll go uh take a leak. Charlie's making dinner and she'd probably like to have a dressed man at her table."

"Why?"

Even as a child, Dean had whined about certain things, made their Dad go crazy and Sam giggle. Some things never changed.

"Because who'd want to watch your dick while eating potato and dumpling soup?"

"Hey, I know plenty of women…"

"Oh Gods…" he rolled his eyes at the ceiling and kept them there as he helped lift his brother from the floor and onto bed. He had enough of watching his brother's family jewels … he had enough of watching his brother's scars. At least Dean managed to clean himself of all the blood and the sweat.

"Cover yourself up."

Placing a fresh blanket over Dean's body he had to smile at his brother's: "Prude."

"Hey, I've seen you naked and once is enough for me. I seriously don't want a repeat of that."

Dean sighed. "Fine. So now what?"

"Like I said, I'll go get you some clothes, we'll go to the toilet then dinner and sleep" he rolled his eyes at Dean's rolled eyes, "dude, you need it, I need it, Charlie needs it. Twirly will come soon, bring you your weapons and he'll need sleep too."

"Well aren't we a party people," watching his brother pout was more amusing than it had any right to be, "so young and all asleep by eight."

"Don't pout, you're not five. Sleep is good for the body, the brain. Getting some strength back to your legs."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

He'd missed his brother so damn much the magnitude of just how much hit him right then and there. He'd missed this grouchy, funny, crazy, cocky, loving thing that was his brother so damn much he never even knew how much before he got him back. He knew how much, yes, but he never _knew_ how much.

"Dean …"

"Oh no, no touchy-feely things, no. Not while 'm going commando here, all right? So go get me some clothes, somewhere. And underwear. Something that doesn't itch."

He chuckled: "Any other requests?"

"Ale?"

Sam snorted: "Water, 's all you're getting for a while. Need to get yourself hydrated."

"Coffee?"

"No, sleep. Dinner and sleep. In that order."

"Pushy pants."

Yeah he'd missed his brother like a cut off limb.

"So dad's dead, ya know?"

If it was news to him, he'd probably choke on the half of the dumpling he was chewing on. But it wasn't news to him, so he swallowed calmly, looked at another dumpling he'd dissect in a second and whispered: "I know, Dean."

"Drank himself to death."

He knew that too, Mr. Singer had told him. He hadn't gone and watch Dean burn their Dad into ashes, he couldn't.

"I know."

"'kay."

"Yeah."

He attacked the elusive dumpling and cut it in half with his spoon. Their Dad was dead and he'd left his brother to build the pyre all by himself, drag Dad's body onto it all by himself and then light the wood all by himself. He couldn't … he hadn't been allowed to go.

Charlie didn't say anything, just scooped more soup onto her spoon and munched on a potato.

"Sleep, Dean, 'kay? No walkin' around here, no pokin' at stuff, nothin', just sleep."

"Yes, fine, Gods. If I'd known you were such a mother hen I'd never …"

He stopped himself before he could finish that, but the words were there, even if unspoken. Sam had heard them, processed them in a span of one heartbeat and watching his brother's face fall and eyes go blank sent a shiver down Dean's spine as if someone stepped on his grave.

"I'll stop. 'm sorry, please, just don't …"

Sam's words shocked him to the core; not even the smoke managed to do as much damage as Sam's words had just now. It was meant as a joke, but he guessed they weren't at that stage yet; he'd have to learn to thread carefully. He reached for his brother's shoulder – lying in the same bed, it really wasn't that far – and gripped it hard, digging his fingers into Sam's shoulder blade.

"Sam, Sammy, no, hey, I'll never leave you again, never no matter what, you hearin' me? You're stuck with me, I didn't mean to … you're all I have, man. All that's left of our family, okay? I don't wanna … I can't let you go."

He watched as Sam's eyes glistened mighty suspiciously in the silver moonlight, but if anything should spill, he wouldn't mock him for it. Everything was still so brand new, they were still re-discovering each other, yeah he could read the kid like a book in some ways, but in other ways, Sam was a mystery waiting to be solved. And he would learn how to walk on eggshells in the meantime, be careful with his words and actions, because he never ever wanted to make Sam apologize to him for anything. Never wanted to see tears in Sam's eyes that he put there and he never wanted to make Sam feel like he'd ever leave him.

He watched as Sam bit his lower lip and nodded: "Me too." before releasing his brother's shoulder with a light slap.

"Okay, so now shoo, me needs my beauty sleep."

"You totally need one, trust me."

"Shut up and go to sleep. Just don't snore or I'll throw you off the bed."

He could almost hear Sam's eye roll at that and it made him smile. The kid had changed so much, yet he hadn't changed at all and every little quirk of his brother's, every smile and every bitch face, every mother-henning thing he did just made him realize how damn much he'd missed the kid. Just how damn much he loved his brother.

The feeling hit him so suddenly, like a lightning that it made him squeeze his eyes shut and reach his hand across the small space between him and Sam and slap Sam's broad back.

He just needed to feel Sam be alive and right there; needed to feel the warmth and the movement of Sam's body and even the slap at his hand and the "Dude, what the hell?" he got made him grin from ear to ear.

"A fly, sorry."

"Did you get it?"

Yeah he got it all right; had his brother back. They missed eighteen years of being together, but they were together now. That was all that mattered.

"Yeah, got it."

"Didn't hear anything."

"'s 'cause all the hair's in the way."

"Shut up."

"Stuck with me, told ya."

"Oh Gods…"

They were sleeping in Charlie's room, the bed big enough for three people and she'd taken her Granny's room when she saw that Dean's feet were hanging off the mattress and Sam had looked like a lost puppy not knowing what, where or how.

_hoot_

"And you, don't snore either."

_hoot_

"Twirly's gonna go hunt for food when we fall asleep. He'll be back by morning, won't you buddy?"

_hoot_

The moon wasn't full, would be a week longer for that to happen, but it was bright outside, the silver light illuminating the room through a small window. Sam turned towards it, knowing that Twirly would open it and close it when he'd leave.

He had his brother at his back, his brother who was alive and healthy and his old self, just as he'd been as a child. Maybe life had hardened him in some aspects, jaded him, but when he loosened up, when he relaxed, he became that quirky kid who read him stories at this time of night and stroked his hair when dreams became too much.

"Night Sammy."

"Yeah, night."

It had been eighteen years since they've spoken those words to each other and Sam didn't care when a tear slipped down his temple and into the pillow.

The sounds of wolves howling somewhere far away followed him into sleep; until Dean started snoring.

It was going to be a long night.

"So aren't you missed in the Inquisition Hall or something? What if you'll need to Collect someone?"

They were having breakfast of honey and black bread that Charlie had gotten who knew where from, but the honey was sweet and the bread wasn't moldy and that was all that mattered. It didn't feel awkward at all, sitting behind the table, listening to water boiling on the stove and firewood crackle when pockets of resin finally popped under the heat. The sun had gotten up hours ago, and was now streaming in through the little windows, lines of brightness over the amber colored honey.

"I'd be summoned. Twirly would let me know. And I am allowed to leave the Hall, ya know?"

"Oh, okay … I just always thought that they keep you all locked up in there," Dean shrugged and poured more honey onto his slice of bread, "until you're needed."

"Yeah, some prefer to stay in, I … never did. I like walking around, watching people live. Talking to the Land, just …" Sam took a sip of milk fresh from the cow, it was still warm and rich with taste making him smack his lips, "hear what it has to say. How the … the Plague is spreading."

"Yeah you were always a nosy kid, glad that didn't change."

Sam huffed: "Wasn't nosy, just … curious."

"Same thing."

"'s not, just … drink your milk."

"Drink yours."

"'m drinking."

"Oh brother …"

She sighed and tried not to smile as she watched them wipe milk mustaches from their lips. They looked like little kids, still with crust in the corner of their eyes because they'd rushed to the table as soon as they smelled breakfast, forgoing the washing up. Not something that would become of the Inquisitor and the Hunter because they looked pretty gross with pillow creases on their cheeks, messy hair – Sam more so than Dean – and white lines of dried drool at the corners of their mouth.

She could see they were brothers in everything they did; the way they ate, the way they spoke – even when they didn't speak at all – the way they breathed. The way they'd look at each other with disbelief in their eyes, as if they couldn't really fathom that the other was really, actually, for real there.

She didn't know how it was, being separated like that, knowing the other was out there somewhere but not allowed to see, not allowed to visit, not allowed to look. She knew how loss felt, but all of her losses were final while theirs wasn't.

She took them in, fed them, made Dean tea every three hours until he swore he could feel it leaking out of his ears and gave him ointments for the abrasions the leather bonds had made on his wrists. There was nothing more she could do but give Dean food, rest and time. Time healed wounds, she knew that, some better than others, but eventually blood stopped flowing and left behind a scar.

She knew that better than anyone; as the Healer she'd seen things, mended wounds many didn't even dare to look at.

And having the Inquisitor's brother in her home made her realize that no one was safe in this Land. Made her really nervous too, as the Hunter was rumored to be ferocious, merciless, a killer who bathed in the blood of his kills before going to bed. Observing Dean though, she wanted to smack those rumors back into the mouths of those spreading it. Dean was funny, gentle, cocky at times but most of all, he didn't look like he wanted to kill anything, not even her cow when she hadn't wanted to give milk in the first two tries.

She shrugged and took a sip of tea before she cleared her throat and said: "So lazy," her eyes found the Hunter's over the brim of her tea cup, "when're you gonna get out of my bed?"

"As soon as my legs won't feel like somethin' chopped 'em off."

"Aha, and … uh," she pointed her finger at him and moved it up and down, "the rest of you? How's that feeling?"

She watched him slowly put the now empty glass of milk on the table and shrug: "Feels okay. The amulet that Castiel gave to me, I don't know, I," he scratched the back of his neck, as if shy to speak the next words: "think it healed me."

It was a possibility, yes. She knew of 'items' that could heal, that could take away pain both physical and mental, could even alter reality, make the person wearing it seem as if they were high on drugs. She had her own cross hanging from her neck, but that was more a comfort item, given to her by her mom when she'd gone with her Inquisitor and never returned, but still … it made her feel better having it. When Sam had taken it away in the Questioning, she'd felt as if she'd lost a piece of her soul but the piece had soon been replaced by her Inquisitor's words and then when he'd given her the cross back, everything in her had clicked into place again.

There were objects powerful enough to even heal the Questioning, but as she'd heard it, they'd all been lost some time ago.

Or, apparently, not.

"Yeah, perhaps. I don't interfere with the Herd's business, I'm not a part of … 'm not of status kinda, so I have no clue what they're thinking and stuff, but yeah … perhaps it did heal you, or is healing you."

"Yeeeeeah …"

She flinched at the drawled out word, because she could see it in his eyes that he was gearing up for something, thoughts swirling in every line on his face and she took another sip of her now cool tea, preparing for whatever would come out of the Hunter's mouth.

"… so Charlie, uhh, y-you were one of Sam's … ya know …"

His eyes didn't meet hers and she was grateful for it; she'd probably run out of the room if he'd look at her right then. She didn't want to have this conversation, not after the talk she'd had with Sam last night. That had drained her and left her awake the entire night, tossing and turning and sweating through three shirts. At one point she even got up from the bed, had her feet already on the floor all ready to go to Sam and curl herself around him, but she sucked it up, crawled back under her covers and stared out the window. She was pretty sure it was the _hoot_ from an owl that made her close her eyes and when she'd opened them, the owl was sitting on the windowsill looking at her with huge blinking eyes. It had hooted once more, and she remembered those feathers under her fingertips.

She shook her head. The Hunter was sitting across from her, staring at his plate that had drops of honey on it, playing with them with the tip of the spoon. He was just as unnerved about all of this as she was and that made her answer: "Yeah, I was."

"Dean…"

She looked at Sam, had completely forgotten that he was actually still in the kitchen, sitting right next to his brother, a piece of bread with honey running down the crust now forgotten on his plate. His eyes were on Dean, probably pleading with him to stop whatever he was planning, to stop with the questions and to just stop.

But if she knew anything to be real about Dean, it was that he was a stubborn man and when he looked at the amulet that lay on his chest, she placed the teacup on the table and waited him out. She could follow his pace.

"How … did it hurt? After," he plucked a crumb off the bread and twisted it between his fingers, flattening it with his thumb to his palm, "I mean?"

"Dean, c'mon stop it."

"Sam …"

And there it was; speaking with a look, no words needed and she could see Sam's shoulders slump and his head fall down, hiding his eyes from the world. From her. From Dean.

It made her question – just for a moment – how the Herd had, how the fates had picked Sam of all people, Sam with this huge conscience and sensitive soul, to be the Inquisitor. Who had made a mistake there? But the moment was just that, a moment, because after being with Sam in that chamber, after being with him here in her home, she knew why.

"Sam, it's okay, I don't mind. Anymore," she chuckled and looked at Dean, trying to catch his eyes, but he didn't allow for that, "it didn't hurt as hurt, it was more like … an itch inside that no matter what I did, I couldn't scratch. It was driving me crazy, literally crazy, there were hours when all I did was scratch at my skin till I bled. Then the nightmares and," she cleared her throat, "stuff, but it was all still better than being sick. Than dying, even if sometimes it felt like I was dying."

"Charlie …"

"No, it's okay, Sam. Like I said, I don't hate you, or … or blame you. I don't. Never have, really. You didn't hurt me, you didn't … it's okay. Really."

She reached across the space and slid her hand into his, trying to show him that she wasn't scared of touching him, wasn't afraid that he'd suddenly take her away again.

He gripped her fingers tight for a second before releasing her hand with a tiny smile. It was all she wanted, more than she hoped for. He didn't deserve to feel guilty about what he was doing. He didn't.

"So anyone wants more milk? And you're getting more tea, no complaints Hunter."

"Yes ma'am."

She laughed and got up from her chair, walking towards the cupboard to find herbs to cook into the water.

"Hey Charlie," Dean's soft, serious voice stopped her hand just before hitting the tin can, "for what it's worth, I never asked for the amulet, I'd gladly take everything and roll with it."

She gripped the tin can of dried chamomiles and whispered loud enough for the Hunter to hear: "I know you would."

"'kay, here let me help you with this."

She nearly jumped out of her skin when a hand appeared by her side and tried to take the chamomiles away.

"It's okay Dean, you go get cleaned up, 'cause let me tell you, that dried up drool at the corner of your mouth mixed with milk is really disgusting. And then some more rest, 'kay? I'll bring you your tea to the room."

"Yes ma'am."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh gods…" and started pouring the boiling water into a bigger mug, smiling when she heard Sam say: "Stow the charm there buddy," laughing outright when Dean puffed out his chest with a "Hey, I have to keep it flowing, otherwise it'll dry up and then what?"

"Oh gods …"

How those two were rumored to be the most feared men in the Land she really didn't know. People could be very odd sometimes.

_hoot_

He was chopping firewood, trying to do as much as he could to help relieve Charlie of some of her chores, the dry heat beating down on him, making sweat run in a steady flow down his spine, when Twirly sat down on his shoulder, nearly making him chop off his head.

"Damnit, Twirly, scared the cheese out of me."

He put the axe to the floor to make room for Twirly to sit down on the chopping block.

_hoot_

Wiping off a drop of sweat that was this close to falling into his eye, he raised an eyebrow at Twirly's words: "What? Why?"

_hoot_

"Okay, all right. Sure. Tell 'em not for a few more days, he's not strong enough yet."

_hoot_

"Be careful, okay?"

_hoot_

"Don't roll your eyes at me."

"So, Sammy, you see a lot of naked chicks then, huh?"

That caught him by surprise and he nearly dropped the glass of ice tea Charlie had given to him to carry to his brother. He tried to scramble for some sort of reply that would be at least somewhat coherent, because what?

So this was how it was going to be now? Great. As much as he'd missed his brother, he hadn't missed the teasing and the mocking and all the other things big brothers just felt they had the birth right to do.

But all he did was snort, set the glass on the nightstand and sat down by Dean's feet. He twisted his hands on his lap, trying to come up with the right words to explain to Dean how it was. How it had sickened him at first, made him close his eyes so that he wouldn't see, put his hands over his ears, so that he wouldn't be able to hear, breathe through his mouth so that he wouldn't be able to smell … but over time it all just became 'the way things were'.

"Dean, 's not like that ... I've been trained not to ... its, I wouldn't ..." he looked up at Dean, "the first few times, I puked my guts out, Twirly had to call for Doc Turner, they …" he sighed, "but over time, it became easier. It just became … I became used to it, you know? The same way as hunting became a part of you, right?"

He nodded as Dean nodded.

"Yeah, so … now, I don't even pay attention to all that, I just try to make everyone be comfortable and just … do what I'd been taught to do."

"I know, I know Sam, all right?"

There was no judgment in his brother's eyes, just a sense of truth and a hint of the same path they'd walked on to get to where they were. Sure they had both done different things to get here, but they'd talk about those paths more in the next few years.

"You know, I ... uh … I had someone, she …" he swallowed down the burn of tears he could feel in his throat and looked away from his brother's eyes, "she died …the Plague … she …"

He had no idea why he was telling this to Dean, whatever made him open up his mouth and say all that. It was probably completely the wrong time, everything probably totally out of the blue to Dean, but now that he said it, he couldn't take it back.

"You loved her?"

The floorboards were cherry wood; red and with lines made by wood worms. He could hear them at night, eating away at the wood, one annoying noise at the time. He'd never decide for cherry wood floor, too red, too similar to blood; no, he'd prefer oak wood. Sturdy, dark brown wood. He even had some picked, was very close to having it delivered to his childhood cottage that automatically belonged to him when his Dad had died and Dean had disappeared. He'd planned to live there with her and any children she would've given him. He'd had it all planned and when Dean had asked him those three words, it all came crashing back and there was only one answer: "I loved her so much."

His eyes remained dry, but his throat felt as if a vice was squeezing it. A lump the size of a boulder formed right in the center and he worked hard to swallow it all down.

"Sammy, 'm sorry."

His brother's words – soft and gentle, such an opposite to the way this whole conversation had started – came with a heavy hand on his shoulder that slipped to his nape where the fingers started to massage the side of his neck.

"It's okay ... its ... fine." He mumbled, suddenly feeling so, so tired.

"No, Sam really," Dean's fingers dug into the side of his neck, making him twist his head and look at his brother, "hey, I'm sorry."

Dust flew on the sunbeams in the space between them but it didn't distort what was written in Dean's eyes when he said that - sorry I hadn't been there, sorry I hadn't had the chance to meet her, sorry she died, sorry, sorry, so sorry.

He couldn't do anything but nod and smile when Dean let go of the back of his neck, hit him twice between his shoulder blades and fell back to bed.

The moment was gone, floating away on the dust moths.

"Uh, so," he shook his head, trying to get rid of the memories, "uh the Herd asked if we could pay 'em a visit. When you'd be strong enough. I told Twirly to tell 'em that won't happen for a few days still, so ..."

"No, no, you know what. Let's go see them, now."

He watched stupefied as Dean began pulling the blanket off his lap and swinging his still weak legs down to the floor.

"Dean, whoa, hey, no, you'll gonna fall."

"Dude, I've been shakier than this and I didn't fall. Impala will keep me on her back, don't worry. You just worry about your own horse."

He blushed: "I don't exactly ... I don't have to umm ride. I just ... I appear."

"What?"

"I … you know," he made some vague hand gestures that he hoped Dean would understand as something kind of flying but not exactly, "just appear. I have the destination and I just appear there."

"Well, how nice. But some of us still need to either use a horse or our feet."

"Yeah, ain't that a pain."

"Sure is, but it is what it is. So, we leaving or what?"

"Dean, you're still too weak, you can't …"

He knew he was almost whining, but Dean still looked as if a strong breeze could knock him over and then what?

"Sam, watch me."

Dean had always been stubborn and the way he locked his jaw and gritted his teeth made Sam growl: "You can't even stand up and walk without help."

"You'll help me and Impala won't let me fall off her, now back off, we're leaving."

"No!"

"No?"

He'd been taught well, countless hours, years training by the masters of weapons, they had all but beat knowledge into his skull and into his arms and legs, and he had soaked it all up like a sponge. He had his hand on the handle of his long sword between one heartbeat and the next, drawing it out of its sheath between one breath and another, and had Dean pinned to the wall opposite the bed with his forearm cutting off Dean's air supply and the tip of the sword pressing directly over his brother's heart.

Dean didn't even see it coming, one second he was getting up from the bed and the next his back hit the wall, making him start gasping for air.

"You didn't even see that one coming, did you? And if it was something else? It wouldn't have stopped like I did, it would've just pushed its sword in you, you dumbass."

He couldn't reply to Sam because his brother's strong forearm was pressing against his throat, making strange gasping sounds come from his mouth. He gripped Sam's arm, tried to scratch him or push him away, but damn the kid was strong and the tip of the sword was pushing even deeper into his skin now, right through the thin t-shirt.

"Defend yourself, or we're not leaving until you can."

Through the gasping and the spots appearing before his eyes, he grinned and grabbed the sword with his free hand, pushing it away. It was dangerous, yes, he could've gotten cut, yes, but it wouldn't've been the first time, nor the fiftieth time and he'd learned pretty fast how to not get cut. And Sam wouldn't really hurt him, would he?

The slip of Sam's concentration was all he needed to headbutt Sam, knee him in the family jewels and kick him down to the ground.

"Sorry, man, real sorry … you want some ice on that?"

The way Sam was holding his junk, red as beet in his face with tears at the corners of his eyes, Dean thought that yeah, his brother would need some ice.

But then a leg swept his own and he was on the floor before he knew what hit him.

"You'll pay for that…" Sam squeezed between his teeth and rolled to his other side, his hand never leaving his groin when his foot connected with his brother's ribs and then his stomach.

"Ooooh ow, asshole."

"Don't," a hiss, "play," a hiss, "dirty."

"You've got so much to learn little brother."

"Uggghhhh…"

_hoot_

They would've probably fallen asleep right there on the floor, each cradling his own injury if Twirly hadn't come to perch on the side of the bed and gave them both a stink eye.

"Shut up, owl."

_hoot_

"We're fine, just resting."

_hoot_

"The bird's crazy."

Dean gasped and rolled onto his back, kicking Sam's foot with his until they both looked at each other.

"I'll walk beside Impala." Sam hissed out.

"Good plan, little brother." He groaned and clutched at his belly.

Charlie wasn't home when they finally picked themselves up from the floor, tested their limbs and stumbled to the kitchen. They were glad she hadn't been home to see that, she'd probably scoff at them and make them drink even more nasty concoctions but as it was, she had already left to go do whatever it was she did.

Sam had left her a note saying that they'd be back in a few hours. He hoped that would be all right. They had extended her hospitality far too thin already and he was scared that she'd throw them on their asses any day now.

But she hadn't. Yet.

But even if she did, Dean would go live in their childhood home and he'd make arrangements to go live with him. Mr. Singer would probably have a heart attack, but … if his mom was allowed to get married and have two kids, then he was allowed to spend as much time with his brother as possible.

End of story and he wouldn't back down on that. Grand Master Inquisitor or not, he was allowed to have a family. He'd wanted one with Jessica too, had picked her a ring and all when the Plague came. He hadn't been the one to Question her, and he was both sad and happy about that. But he'd sat by her bed for weeks, every spare second he had, he'd been with her, watching her wither away in pain and sobs until Death came and took her from him. She'd caught the Plague from the florist on Main Street. Caught it before the Inquisitors were called to Collect the man.

It was things like that which made him rage in his room so many times, throw things and smash things into smithereens. Helped for a while and then he did it again.

"Sam? Hey," the snapping of fingers right before his nose brought him back and he shuddered out of the memories, "you okay there?"

Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean was here now. And no one and nothing would ever take his brother away from him.

"Yeah, yeah 'm fine, let's go. How's it up there?"

Impala had come as soon as she'd been called by Dean's loud whistle that was still making Sam's ears ring. And as he'd thought, she'd come running to them with her mane braided in small braids and the tail brushed with such care it had no knots and no dirt in it. Dean's face had gotten pale when he'd seen her and he'd barely had the strength to gasp out: "What've they done to you baby?" before he'd started to untangle her mane.

Sam had waited patiently, tapping his foot by the cottage front door, wondering if he had time to get himself some water or something. Maybe an early lunch too. But it seemed as if Dean had practice with these kinda things and he had everything nicely unbraided in minutes, making Impala snort.

"High. How's it down there?"

"Low."

They were walking slowly towards the mountains, towards the Herd and it was definitely a new experience for them both – having someone else there, by their side. Not just a horse or a bird. If this was how it felt like to not be alone, then it was a feeling someone should bottle and give out for free.

"Sam, you sure you're okay? You can ride her, ya know? She won't … she won't mind."

Impala moved her ears forward, listening intently at what was being said, and blew air out of her nostrils, not really caring who would ride her as long as she could move. She did twist her head and looked at the one who was walking beside her and looked him straight in his eyes; he was the Inquisitor, she knew that. He'd been kind to her when they first met, he had sent her to the Herd when he'd taken her sick Master to be healed and when he smiled at her, she smiled back.

"You sure about that, Impala?"

She liked it when he stroke her flank, his hand was big and just gentle enough.

"'course she's sure."

She nickered, hoping he'd understand her.

"Okay, coming up."

He hauled himself onto the horse and placed his hands on Dean's waist, holding on for dear life. He tried to take the reins from Dean's hands that were still a bit on the shaky side but his brother elbowed him: "Hey, hey, hey, driver picks the speed, shotgun shuts his cakehole about it."

"Fine, fine, sorry, my mistake."

"Damn right, right baby?"

Impala shook her head, swished her long, bushy tail and trotted forward.

They rode down the empty river bed; the water had just disappeared one day, out of the blue. An hour earlier the women of the nearby village had been washing their clothes in it and the next hour, the water had just vanished. The Plague had sucked it dry, people said that that had been the day the Plague had wanted to starve them.

They had other water; lakes and rivers, ponds too. So that theory was shot down pretty fast.

They rode through the barren plains, the winds swirling the sand and plucking it right from the ground. They had to cover their mouths and noses, otherwise they'd suffocate on it.

They rode through a patch of trees, their moans of agony tearing at their soul. The trees that were still standing tall and proud were rubbing their branches across the sick ones, giving comfort to their suffering brothers and sisters.

They turned, twisted their trunks with creaking noises to look at Sam and Dean as if wanting to say _help us, help them_ but were too proud to beg. Stubborn trees, but Dean vowed that he'd come back here right after they'd deal with the Herd and use his axe anyway, help wanted or not. He was sure that Sam would help him.

They saw trees that were holding on to their stubs of a trunk only by a splinter, one tiny line of life still connecting them to the roots and those trees wailed the most. Dean could feel their pain – indescribable and so very loud to anyone of status. He could feel it shooting through that tiny piece of wood, as if it was shooting up and down his own spine.

They had to stop then, get off Impala and cut through those splinters, releasing the trees from their agony, giving them death so deserved. They didn't care if the trees wailed not to do it, didn't care about their pride, all they wanted was to give them peace.

A spruce tree tried to shoot at them with her spiky needles, giving all of her strength to chase them away, but Dean wielded his axe, while Sam stroked her trunk, trying to push her begging to the back of their minds. She was lying across the path, her once mighty trunk all eaten up by little critters, holes as big as Sam's fist scattered all over the wood, but she still held on.

"Gonna be over soon, darlin'" Dean whispered while bringing his axe down, severing the vein that had been keeping her alive.

"She's gone now."

"Yeah, yeah, come on, let's go."

They rode on, leaving her to slowly decay into the ground, merge with the Land and perhaps one day a new life would spring up right at that place.

It was the right thing to do. It was what they'd been raised to do.

Sam jumped off Impala when the steep climb up the mountain-side began. He didn't want her to carry extra weight when he was able to walk just fine.

"Gonna walk now."

"Sure."

He'd walked these paths so many times, never wanting to just appear before the Herd. He liked walking, cleared his head, especially when he knew the Herd would fill it right back up with extraordinary stories of before.

"I wonder what they want?"

"Dunno, Twirly didn't say. Just said that they want to talk to us."

"They could've just come to us, dunno why we have to ride to them."

"Stop grumbling and come on. The sooner we do this, the sooner we can get back to Charlie. 's chicken for dinner today."

"And pie?"

"Cherry."

"Come on 'pala, c'mon!"

"We've come to see him, Twirly said he called for us."

The scales on top of her head were sharp edged, but flat and brown as hazel. Her head covered the sun, making the bright light a halo around her entire body. She was big, making them crane their necks up high, but they were used to it. The Herd were all huge, tall as hills, but kind and soft spoken, puppies some children liked to play on.

"Sam, Dean. Brothers. Yes, of course. He's inside, reading the dusty tomes. I swear," she huffed smoke out of her huge flaring nostrils, "that man…"

She left the sentence hanging but they knew what she meant. The oldest of them was one coin with two faces; one was trickery and fun and restlessness, the other was seriousness and hours spent studying. It often gave people whiplash around him; he changed his personality with a blink of an eye. Kids loved him though, going along with him on exciting adventures around the caves. He gave the children fun in a Land where fun was sucked almost dry by the disease.

"Thank you. We'll find him."

They did find him inside the warmest and highest of chambers. He was lying on the pebbly ground with his wings tucked around his body, tail swinging left and right against the far wall. The wind created by the swishing tail was making the fire in the torches bend almost flat until the rose again, only to go down flat once more.

Dean shook his head, not wanting to be hypnotized again. Once had been quite enough.

"You called for us?"

"Inquisitor. Hunter. Sam, Dean, welcome, welcome," his short but thick front legs waved in the air almost madly, "haven't seen you two in a while."

"Yeah, well we've been busy with the Plague and all, you know how it is."

Dean waved his hand back and forth like chasing an invisible fly and the oldest of them grinned, showing rows and rows of sharp, pointy teeth.

"I know, I know, believe me I know."

They knew he knew. They all knew how it was, all knew the hardship the Land and its people were going through. It was visible on every step through the Land; creatures going insane by the disease, people dying, trees whimpering in pain, the soil dry and barely able to sustain enough grass to feed grazing animals. It was all dying in anguish.

The oldest of them sighed, the breath ruffling their hair and wrinkling their noses at the smell of smoke that wafted from his mouth.

"The Plague is getting worse," there was a click in the dragon's throat, as if it was barely containing tears, "it's spreading. There's no containing it. The land will fall apart in torment greater than we've ever seen."

"What?"

All they'd done, all those people that had already died, all that suffering, all the blood that had already been spilled, how could they have not contained the Plague? Sam was … sad and disappointed, angry and felt as if an entire brick house just fell on top of his chest. His knees started to feel weak, buckling under the pressure of the dragon's words and he'd have fallen down to the ground if Dean hadn't grabbed him by his bicep and hauled him back on his feet.

"Sam, you okay?"

He looked at his brother and shook his head. He wasn't okay, he wanted to fall to the ground and cry because the Plague would get them all, kill them all, make ruins out of ruins, destroy what little there still was to destroy, kill the Herd, sever the people's link to magic and then what. What would happen?

"Sammy, man, hey, calm down, buddy."

He couldn't calm down. The Herd must've been wrong, they must have wrong information, they …

"Sam, listen to me."

The deep gravelly voice of the oldest of them penetrated his mind and he looked away from Dean's face and up and up and up across the dragon's long muzzle and into one big bright green eye that was looking at him as if he was a fragile little rose petal, so very close to being destroyed in the storm.

"The tide had begun to rise when Dean had been born and now, now that you two are back together, possessing knowledge we all have tried to give you … Sam, you the Scholar, Dean you the Hunter and Annabella the Witch, you all will tear the Plague apart. Bring these people peace and restore what had been torn down. But you have to believe in yourself, believe in what you know, believe in who you are. Don't let the Plague get inside of you."

"Annabella?" Dean's eyes widened and his heart started to beat faster. He hadn't seen the kiddo in so long and she was alive and safe and here somewhere. Ruby's baby was here.

"Yes, she is very strong for her age, smart, Ruby and you taught her well, Dean. We just added more to what she already possessed and along with you two … unstoppable."

Sam didn't pay attention to what the oldest was saying because even if the dragons were wise, old as time itself, said that they'd been born alongside Death himself, alongside Time - shared the same crib and the same toys, but what he was saying about the disease spreading and finally winning over the Land - Sam couldn't believe it. He just couldn't believe that everything anyone had ever done had been in vain. Even if he knew things and Dean knew things and Annabella knew her magic, how … would they … the Plague was so strong, was so smart, was trampling on everything that came in its way, was so …

"Gabriel?"

He squeezed Dean's hand that made its way into his and was the only thing keeping him on his feet.

"Yes, Sam?"

The dragon's right eye came closer to him, if he'd extend his arm, he'd be able to poke the eyeball, but he didn't, just gripped his brother's hand tighter and whispered: "How? How do you know that … that we'll … how, Gabriel?"

"Sometimes, Sam, some stories begin at the end."

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you made it this far, woohooo *high five* thank you so very much for reading, I hope you enjoyed; and if you'd be so kind and leave me a word or two, or a kudos. That would be amazing, thank you. And please don't ask me to write a sequel, because I have bad experiences with saying yes to that, LOL!


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